


First Taught the Chosen Seed

by reading_is_in



Series: New World Order Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Dystopia, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reading_is_in/pseuds/reading_is_in
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Novice Samuel, orphaned ward of the Church and the One State, is a student at Central College with a luminous career as a lawyer ahead of him. He may not have a family, but he has friends, a great mind, and a protective mentor in the form of Elder James Murphy. One day, a charismatic green-eyed foot-soldier breaks into the College on an act of petty theft – Sam reports him, and though uncomfortable at his treatment, puts it behind him and quashes his sinful attractions to the stranger. It works – until a Resistance plot to kidnap Samuel is narrowly thwarted and the soldier – now an Elite Guard – is assigned to protect him. As if that wasn't enough trouble, Sam begins to manifest abnormal abilities. Sam and his mysterious protector – who calls himself Dean –are soon on the run from both the State and the Resistance, making strange alliances, and ever pursued by the enigmatic General R Q Zachariah, Head of State Security, who seems to know more about their importance than either of them ever dreamed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Taught the Chosen Seed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 SPN/J2 Big Bang. Kindly beta'd by zara_zee, with art by machidieles, here: http://machidieles.livejournal.com/586.html

First Taught the Chosen Seed.

Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit  
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal taste  
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,  
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man  
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,  
Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top  
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire  
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,  
In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth  
Rose out of Chaos…  
\- John Milton, Paradise Lost, 1, 1-10.  
Fake is as old as the Eden Tree  
\- Orson Welles.

 

1.

SECURITY TO CENTRAL OFFICE OF THE HIEROPHANT.  
RE:CODENAME‘SLEEPER’ 11/02/1994.

ROGUE ELEMENTS REMOVED.  
SEARCH REVEALED NO TRACE OF SUSPECTED WEAPON.  
AQUIRED: 2 CHILDREN, BOTH M, AGES 4YRS; 6MOS.  
RECOMMEND INFANT BE PLACED IN IMMEDIATE CARE OF THE CHURCH AND STATE.  
ELDER CHILD REQUIRES REHABILITATION.  
FURTHER RECOMMEND COMPLETE ERASURE OF PREVIOUS IDENTITIES.  
NO LOSSES OF PERSONNEL OR EQUIPTMENT.  
END REPORT.  
AUTHORISED AS OF THIS DATE GENERAL R Q ZACHARIAH  
CHIEF OF STATE SECURITY  
IN THE GLORY OF GOD AND THE STATE.

 

* * *  
Central College of the Holy Government.  
October, 2012.

Head bent in concentration over his reader, Samuel started when the bell chimed the end of morning study. The other novices breathed an audible collective sigh, laughed quietly and exchanged a few words, and dropped their e-readers more loudly than necessary. Next to Samuel, Jessica stretched her arms above her head and then slapped him lightly.  
“Freedom!”  
“Novices.” The Librarian gave them a sharp glance: “With decorum.”  
They packed up their belongings and shuffled out of the library – as fast as they could with as little noise, for the most part. Sam blinked in the bright sunlight of the quad, part of his mind still on the e-book he’d been engrossed in.  
“So. Do you like it here?” Jessica asked him, coming up and slipping her arm through his as though they were old friends. She was tall, for a girl, and it wasn’t that much of a stretch for her to walk alongside him. The arm was very forward for a Novice, but he’d heard that the central colleges were stricter on dogma and laxer on behaviour than the provinces.  
“I – think so,” he said carefully. “I mean, I was only transferred three days ago…it’s all kind of…”  
“Overwhelming?” she smiled sympathetically.  
“I think my old college would have fit in the refractory.”  
She laughed. She had a good laugh, full and genuine, and something stirred in him. He put it down. Relationships between the Novices weren’t banned, but vaguely frowned upon as distracting and frivolous. Which had pretty much been Sam’s opinion, before Jessica.  
“We should have a congratulations party,” she mused, as they headed towards the refractory by default. “Slash-welcome-party. I mean, it’s not every day a Novice is hand-picked from some obscure nowhere-town by the Board itself – no offense to your previous accommodations.”  
“I’m not sure I uh, know enough people for a party.”  
“But I do,” she said with a smile. “ _And_ I know how to evade the sensors after lights out.”  
“Look I don’t – Jessica. Jess,” he corrected himself. “Thank you. And I’m sure you do. But it’s just – I’ve been given a gift, you know? Being allowed to come here. I don’t want to throw it away.” She blinked, surprised, and looked hurt for a moment. “I don’t mean it like that,” Sam hastily amended. “I just mean that I’ve been given so much, and I need to use my time here to the absolute best of my ability.”  
“Well, okay. I understand.” She extracted her arm from his, and offered him a different, more sedate smile. “I suppose it’s tough being a prodigy.”  
She moved to walk a little ahead of him, early afternoon sunlight glinting gold in her long hair.

* * *

“What is freedom, Samuel?” Elder Uriel sat back in his chair and made a steeple of his fingers.  
“Freedom is the state of perfect fulfilment of being, without obstruction or deviance, in accordance with ordained and disposed position in the Church and State, for the good of the State and the glory of God.”  
“How do you know?” Elder Lucia peered at him over her wire-framed glasses, e-reader in hand. Sam took a deep breath and willed himself to steadiness. Most Elders were intimidating individually, but the assembled Board was enough to cow even the most arrogant of Novices. Sam wasn’t arrogant. He was confident.  
“Through reading and Enlightenment,” he responded, “And the guidance of my Elders.”  
It was hard not to be distracted by the attendance chamber, with its large vaulted windows and mosaic floor, the long, curving table of real wood at which the Elders were seated. The room was strategically placed so that as the sun moved throughout the day, it slanted through differently stained portions of the windows and lit the room in their colours. A vast crucifix, carved of beautiful dark wood, hung above and behind the Board table depicting the suffering Christ, haloed and emaciated. Mother Lucia leaned forward a little and asked,  
“What experience of freedom have _you_ had in your life?”  
“Being brought here,” said Sam promptly. “Being allowed to fulfil my potential in this way. Being restricted through circumstance in what one can accomplish in God’s name is not free.”  
The Board nodded approvingly, and a younger Elder with short dark hair and friendly eyes smiled at him. Sam stood up a little straighter.  
“And how will you know when you have fulfilled your potential?”  
“Well, that depends,” Sam said carefully. “Humans are made in the image of God, and thus partake of the Divine…so we have earthly potentials to fulfil here, but our full nature is only completed in Heaven. Our earthly nature is to ever strive to serve God and the State.”  
Some of the Board members seemed to be taking notes. Sam swallowed. In his old home, Precinct F7, he had been effortlessly a star: the best even if he hadn’t tried, top of every class, favourite of every Elder. They’d talked to him after class like a fellow adult, a co-conspirator in bringing the young ones up properly. Here at Central College everybody was brilliant, and he was both provincial and expected to live up to the opportunity he’d been given. Every time he answered he felt like they’d heard it and better before.  
“Alright,” said Elder Uriel finally, closing the laptop built into his place at the table. “That will do for this evening. Dismissed Novice. Go in God.” He made the sign of the cross and Sam bowed his head, receiving the blessing, then turned and walked out of the chamber. The minute the door closed behind him he blew out a breath and leaned against it. He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts for a few minutes.  
“Intimidating?” Sam’s eyes flew open, and he found himself face to face with the youngish Elder who had smiled at him. The man had taken off his ceremonial robe and collar; underneath he wore a simple shirt and pressed grey slacks. His dark eyes were twinkling.  
“A bit,” Sam admitted, smiling back.  
“Don’t worry. You impressed them. Between you and me,” he added with a wink.  
Sam felt his smile broaden, showing teeth.  
“I’m Elder James Murphy,” said his benefactor, and gestured with his head that Sam should follow him as he started off down the corridor. “Most people call me Jim. Elder Hermandez recommended you to me, and asked me to make sure you were settling in. Are you?”  
“Yes Elder,” said Sam. “I’m very grateful for the opportunity.”  
“Well, you deserve it,” Elder Murphy said. “They don’t hand out full scholarships for nothing, son. Come talk to me in my office for a bit; we can get to know each other.”  
The next few weeks passed rapidly. Between classes, Church, calisthenics, private prayer time and attempting to make friends and meet a few people Sam scarcely had time to eat and sleep, let alone miss the provinces. Jess showed him around to her friends, took him to his first real party, and flirted openly in front of everyone: a new experience, and embarrassing. Sam liked Jess a lot: she was smart, funny, generous, and by anyone’s standards attractive. Students at Central College were a lot less inhibited than his old peers: he’d seen several of his classmates giving Jessica long appreciative looks, which didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. One guy who lived on his corridor had even remarked to Sam that he was a ‘lucky dog’, making him blush and mutter that they weren’t in a relationship. Sam liked spending time with Jessica, and appreciated how pretty she was, and because he was eighteen and celibate he frequently thought about kissing or touching her body. Then he remembered work, and his responsibility, and his determination to make something of his life, and tried to imagine achieving all that whilst maintaining a committed relationship leading to marriage. It seemed – hard. So he wore himself out at the campus gym, and took advantage of the privacy of his room at night, absorbing the guilt, trying not to think about anything beyond the mechanics of his hand on his own body.  
He was to enter government – what could be more suitable for an ambitious and intelligent ward of the State, after all – so he had classes in Theology and Government, Church History, and the Integrated State and Church. He was leaning towards jurisprudence, and picked up a module called God, Law and The State, which quickly consumed his interest and channelled his career path towards the courts. Elder Murphy supported him. He had Sam to his office at least once a week for coffee and discussion of his progress, a kind of self-appointed personal tutor and friend. Sam was happy, and excited, and the persistent loneliness, the out-of-placeness of being an orphan with no family that had dogged him his whole life receded into the background of his mind.  
When he had been at Central College for four weeks, Elder Murphy gave him a number code and sent him down to the basement storage rooms.  
“There’s a bottle of port in my private cabinet I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”  
Sam had come first in the midterm exams for both Law and Theology and Government. In the other two classes he’d made top five, and had to admit that a small, childish part of him was secretly a little disappointed he hadn’t come first in them all. That would be practically impossible, statistically speaking, but he’d had a dream about it the night before and sometimes his dreams were weirdly prescient like that.  
Sam made his way down the dim stairs, unlocked the main doors by keycard, and navigated the rows of private cabinets. As he approached the right number, Sam felt a shadow pass behind him. He paused. No-one had come into the basement behind him, and there was only one route from the main entrance. He turned around slowly: there was no-one.  
“Hello?” he asked tentatively, hand poised over the lock, and something definitely moved that time, and Sam’s eyes jerked to the door of the walk-in safe, realizing with a sinking feeling that it was very slightly open. The safe held priceless heirlooms, which were put on rotational display in the College museum, and someone was _in there_ , sneaking around, and they hadn’t responded to his call.  
“Hello?” he tried again, hearing a note of desperation in his voice: he glanced to the security camera, and saw that the little red on-light wasn’t flashing. “Who’s there?” Sam demanded. Heart pounding, he glanced around for anything that could be used as a weapon. The best he could find was a small wooden stool, so he picked that up by one of its three legs and edged towards the safe. All was still now, and silent. Sam approached from the side, drew his breath, lifted the chair above his head –—almost too fast to see, someone grabbed his wrist, his fingers opened in reflexive surprise and he dropped the stool with a clatter. He gasped and opened his mouth to yell but a hand was clamped firmly over it; he was yanked backwards and pressed hard against a firm male body.  
“I’m not going to hurt you,” said a voice in his ear: deep, a little rough, assured. “Just keep quiet, okay kid? I’m only taking a couple of things – no-one will even miss them. Just wait a few minutes after I’m gone, then go back upstairs. You didn’t see anything.” Sam could feel muscles moving behind his back as his assailant breathed, hyperconscious of every place where they touched. Outraged, Sam bit the hand clamped over his mouth, and his assailant cursed and loosened his grip for an instant. Sam darted forward and spun around, hand groping for his weapon, but the assailant was just staring at him, making no move to attack. He was – young – younger than Sam had thought from his voice, but still older than Sam. He wore jeans and a black shirt, the pale skin of his face and hands a stark contrast in the dim light. He had _freckles_ , of all things, ridiculous, and remarkably green eyes widened briefly in surprise. Then they hardened in anger.  
Sam did the only sensible thing: drew a deep breath, and shouted for help as loud as he possibly could.

* * *

“You did well, Samuel,” Elder Murphy said, standing behind Sam with a hand on his shoulder as the thief was led away. The intruder had tried to escape, of course, shoving past Sam and making a bolt for the exit; but Security was already on their way and met him in the passage. He was handcuffed, none too gently, his head shoved down and his arms pulled behind him. But he gave Sam a last look before security forced his gaze away. It was an odd look: not angry, but grave, and even a little disappointed. Sam dropped his eyes.  
“Come on back to the study now,” Elder Murphy said.  
“What will happen to him?” Sam asked, his gaze on the intruder’s bent back. _I’m only taking a couple of things – no-one will even miss them_.  
“You know that, my young lawyer – he’ll be held in the Precinct facility until trial, and then sentenced. I imagine his own regiment will have some say in it.” The Elder nodded to the intruder’s arm. The first thing the security guards had done once he was handcuffed was push up his right sleeve to reveal a tattoo: the insignia of the State armed forces, complete with a rank and regiment number belonging to Central Precinct. Next they had scanned his arm for his identichip and sent the information to a server. The thief had stood impassive through the whole process, the vaguest hint of a smirk on his face. One guard was all business, but the other sneered openly at the prisoner, and gave his cuffs a deliberate jerk, designed to cause pain.  
Sam went back to Elder Murphy’s study and they had their drink. Then he went to his room, checked his email, stared at the several ‘Hi, what’s up?’ and ‘Congrats!!’ subject lines, and closed his desktop monitor without answering them. There was always work he could be doing. But he felt – unfocused. The whole episode with the thief had disturbed him. As it would anyone, he assured himself. The thief could’ve been armed – heck, he was a soldier, could probably have killed Sam with his bare hands. But it wasn’t that. At no point after meeting the thief had Sam really felt in danger. Instead that low, gravelly voice kept replaying, _I’m not going to hurt you_ , and the memory of the thief’s last gaze wouldn’t leave his mind. The second guard, the one with the sneer, had seemed a great deal more ominous.  
The lights clicked off promptly at 22.30, and his internet connection went down. Most nights, Sam had been obedient, going right to sleep, or trying to. Other times he slipped out for illicit but tolerated meet-ups. He resolutely got into his bunk, the memory mattress immediately moulding to the contours of his body, and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.  
Fifteen minutes later, almost without volition, his hand reached for his side table and fell on his cellphone. He scrolled down his contacts until he came to ‘Doctor Badass’, one of Jess’s buddies who had programmed his own number into the device.  
“Yo,” Came the answer immediately.  
“Um, hi, Ash. You busy?”  
“Negative, compadre. Just got me some of the sweet herb, out back by the South Garden…need me to hook you up?”  
“No – Ash – look, what are the chances of getting off campus tonight?” What was he _doing?_ This wasn’t his responsibility anymore! _‘But it is’,_ his brain insisted. _’It’s your responsibility because you turned him over.’_  
“Same as every night, _mon enfant._ 100% - when Doctor Badass makes the arrangements.”  
“Okay. I want to go to the Precinct jail.”  
“Woah, oh, hey now— Doctor Badass does not visit at the iron bar hotel.”  
“No – it’s fine—” Sam closed his eyes briefly. Ash was a literal genius, with an IQ close to 200. The braincells he was currently killing with his ‘sweet herb’ would not lack for replacements. But sometimes talking to the guy was like walking up a downwards-moving escalator. “You don’t have to come in. You just have to get _me_ in.”  
“Well why didn’t you say so? I got an ID that will get you into any lockdown this side of the Fourth Precinct. If you like, want to. Or whatever…”  
“I only want to get into First Precinct jail,” Sam said a little desperately. “There’s someone there I need to see.”  
“Ah. Say no more. Give me fifteen minutes to fool the security cameras on your route, and then meet me at the parking lot by North Gate.” He paused. “Go the back way.”  
“Thanks Ash,” said Sam gratefully. “You’re awesome.”  
“Generally,” Ash agreed, and hung up.  
Sam got up and got back into his clothes, then sat and watched the clock on his phone for the rest of the fifteen minutes. Holding his breath, he slipped out of the door and down to the back staircase. He evaded one Elder by ducking into a side corridor, but aside from that all was silent. Ash was waiting at the North Gate, exactly as promised, self-built scooter ready to go and the Gate locks effortlessly disabled. He’d done something to his scooter’s identichip that meant the Gate didn’t register it when entered and exited unless the driver was pushing a button. This allowed it to exist on the College radars but come and go at his whim.  
“Er, does this thing have helmets?” Sam asked awkwardly, climbing on behind Ash and trying to lean around and get a look at his driver’s eyes in order to gauge his pupils.  
“Sir. I am a genius,” Ash said firmly. “Put yourself in my hands.”  
Sam kept closing his eyes as they zipped through the night-lit Precinct. For all its ungainly appearance, the scooter was almost silent. A couple of cops followed their passage with their eyes, and some partygoers heading to a what appeared to be a nightclub gave them second glances. Sam craned back to look over his shoulder. He’d seen very little of the Precinct on his way in to the College, and though he’d heard of such things, the very idea of _nightclubs_ left him deeply uncomfortable. The buildings were very tall here – sleek, imposing, and the glimpses of Central Government he caught between them gave Sam a quiet thrill.  
“ _Votre destination, mon amigo_ ,” Ash said, pulling the scooter up silently behind a dark, hulking tower block. It was shorter than many they had passed, with fewer lights on inside. “Doctor Badass here dismounts. Take this.” He handed Sam a small plastic card with a microchip in it. “It will get you past the gates, and if anyone asks, show them this.” Then he produced a sleek fake ID for College Security. Sam was nervous. He was eighteen, and with his height and a little stubble he could _maybe_ pass for early twenties. He’d never seen a College Security guard that looked under thirty. Most were former cops, or had worked security in some other capacity.  
“It’s all in the attitude, my man,” Ash said, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “Also this will help. He produced what looked like a generic scanner, took Sam’s forearm, and ran it over the identichip. Sam felt the chip tingle under his skin.  
“What did you do?” he exclaimed.  
“Relax,” Ash clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s temporary. Any scanner that reads you for the next half hour will die a mysterious death. Oh and this,” he waved the scanner. “You never saw it. Like ever. _Comprende?_ ”  
Sam’s mouth hung open a little. “Now vamoose.” Ash made a shooing motion.  
Sam got off the back of the scooter and strode purposefully up to the building. Strobe lights and sensors scanned silently over him and he tried to look like he was supposed to be there. The heavy main gates accepted his pass card without a hitch, and he displayed the College Security badge to the attendant wilting in a booth on the far side. The attendant sat up a little straighter and gave it a long look, looked at Sam, then nodded and waved him on. Sam nodded in reply and followed the path up to the main building, heart hammering in his chest.  
“I want to see the prisoner brought in from Central College today,” he said to the woman on duty behind the main desk, and showed her the ID again. “My boss sent me with some questions.” She frowned, looked him up and down, took his card and indicated for him to extend his forearm. Sam felt sick with adrenalin. The scanner buzzed over his arm and beeped:  
 _Read Error._  
The woman pressed a button and tried it again.  
 _Read Error._  
She scanned it over her own chip, got the same result, and cursed. “Piece of crap.” Then she picked up her headset, and said,  
“Denny? Scanner’s on the fritz,” waving Sam on with her left hand in the direction of a set of double doors. “Cell 17,” she said to Sam. Sam had to school his face out of a smile as he headed for the cell block. The thrill of the disobedience surprised him, making him want to step lighter or hug himself. He ought to have felt only horror.  
Horror kicked in the moment he entered the cell block. Dark corridors lined with, essentially, cages – squares of dark space built into the walls and cordoned off by close-set bars of some sleek, shiny metal. It _smelled_. Everything in the Central Precinct was so pristine, so hygienic, that the odour of sweat, piss and – something else – abruptly turned Sam’s stomach. Each cell had a bunk and a steel basin, a toilet in the form of a hole in the ground. Dim electric lights the size of Ash’s scooter reflectors glowed from the walls between the cells. Most were empty, but a few shadowed figures sat or sprawled on the bunks. None glanced in his direction.  
They were criminals, he reminded himself. But God gave humans rights. The law couldn’t take away those rights, except where the Church and State, the Body of God, was threatened. Sam slipped as quietly as he could past the cells, noting numbers, and drew up short in front of the cell marked 17.  
It was so dim and still that at first Sam didn’t see his prisoner. Then a shape moved – sat up on the bunk. His prisoner grinned at him, dark blood staining his white teeth, and Sam stumbled back a step.  
“Well,” said the prisoner archly. “What’s a nice kid like you doing in a place like this?”  
The prisoner had been beaten – that low, nervous suspicion which had niggled at Sam since they’d parted the last time suddenly clarified. There were bruises on his face and his nose had bled – one lip split and swollen, distorted. He held himself carefully, his back to the cell wall as though it was easier than holding himself upright, still somehow conveying arrogance.  
“I-” Sam started. “They-…”  
“Welcome to State justice, kid,” said the prisoner.  
“I’m sorry!” Sam blurted.  
The prisoner shrugged, an ingrained reflex, and then winced as the motion pulled something. “Could hardly expect you to compromise your good standing.”  
“I didn’t know they’d…” Sam spread his hands. “I mean, I’m a law student.”  
The prisoner laughed; a harsh bark. “Consider this your first lesson in theory into practice.”  
“Who did this?” Sam demanded. “They should be disciplined.”  
The prisoner raised his eyebrows, disbelieving. “Kid – I’m a grunt.”  
“A what?”  
“Foot soldier. Cannon fodder. First line of defence of the State.” The prisoner waved a hand expansively. “Most expendable of the expendables. No prison or security guard is gonna get so much as a wrist slap for working one of us over. Besides…” he grinned again, looked inwards. “I did kinda provoke ‘em.”  
 _‘Them’,_ Sam thought. So there was more than one. Which figured – State Army Infantry were trained in hand-to-hand combat, and this guy looked like he could more than handle himself. Sam’s eyes lingered momentarily on the line of muscle at the prisoner’s bicep and shoulder, the dull gleam of sweat on his throat. He jerked his gaze away, surprised.  
“I’m gonna follow up on this,” he resolved. “I’ll find out who the security guards were.”  
“Kid,” said the prisoner. “Leave it.” His tone left no room for disagreement. “Get out of here before somebody sees you. You’re alright. Don’t screw up your chances over a grunt. I’ve had worse than this, and I will do again. I don’t want anything from you.”  
Sam backed away without turning his face from the prisoner’s. Alert green eyes followed him all the way back to the doors.

 

2.  
Fall became winter, became spring. The College calendar was structured by traditional holidays: Christmas with its feasting and celebratory services, reminders of the goodness of God’s bounty and the blessings of their administration by the State; Lent, with its restricted meals and services on penance and guilt. Sam felt the decrease in food particularly harshly, as it seemed his ridiculous body was intent on getting even taller, and some days he felt like he was being stretched, joints popping like a sinner on a medieval rack. Easter with its promises of new life and rejuvenation. And always, work work work. Sam decided firmly on Law as his speciality. There were more parties and less frequent sleep, and he kissed Jessica for the first time – rather, she kissed him. They were beneath a tree in the old courtyard – it was light into the evenings now – and she leaned over with the sun glinting behind her blond hair, pressing her lips to his brief and chaste, and his eighteen-year-old body lit up, tensed as a bolt of electricity shot all the way through him from his mouth. She pulled back fairly quickly – Central College or not, there were limits to what one could do in public. She slanted her eyes over towards him, almost bashful. And he blushed. Because as lovely as she was, and as excited as he was becoming, his secret turned in the back of his mind.  
Jess was beautiful. And she excited him. But – when he was alone at night, in those secret moments, it was no longer her body he imagined touching. When he couldn’t focus and discipline himself to think of his hand alone, he remembered – strong muscles, sweat beading the line of a throat, and bright-coloured, shadowed green eyes.  
Fuck.  
He spoke about it to no-one, but he knew the Law. The Church recognised that some people were tempted with unnatural desires. That in itself was not a mortal sin. Everybody was tempted in some way – even Christ. It was merely another thing he had to master, had to put away and squash down and never allow to surface. He could do that. He had a lifetime of practice in self-mastery. He recited set prayers in his mind, snapped a rubber band around his wrist to distract himself when his thoughts became dangerous. Mercifully his perversity seemed directed primarily towards one memory: a grunt whom he would never see again.  
Sam grew another two inches and some of the other Novices started to call him Beanpole. He had to spend some of his living allowance on longer jeans and slacks, which made him feel inexplicably guilty, because he had never been in charge of his own money before and so never bought anything for himself. His birthday in May came and went. Elder Murphy gave him a small cross on a silver chain, and Jess gave him a paper Bible with gilt edges and hand-painted illustrations that seemed to glow from the pages.  
“I can’t – Jess it’s too much,” he said, astonished. “This must be…”  
“Old,” she shrugged. He had been about to say ‘priceless’. “Sam honestly, it’s okay. I want you to have it.” There was nothing in her face but generosity, but Sam was reminded once again of the gulf between him and the other students. They had families; some had trust funds. Sam loved the Bible. It was beautiful, and he loved the feel of the paper in his hands. He kept it under his bed in a lock box.  
He was still performing brilliantly in every class, and at the end of May, the Elder Ellen Harvelle selected him as one of four Novices to accompany her on a visit to Northern College in Second Precinct. She was to give an annual guest lecture on the theory of government, and typically chose a few of the most promising Novices to accompany her and represent Central to the students. Some of them, no doubt, would eventually be Elders or Province Governors, and it was good for them to experience this sort of travel.  
Sam reported to the North Reception at 06:00 on the 31st of May. He recognised two of other Novices: Jake Talley was a friend of Jess’s, and the third was a petite girl with wide blue eyes – Eva? Ella? The fourth was a short pale boy whom Sam he didn’t know. They all exchanged small smiles and measuring looks.  
“So you’re the protégé,” said the pale boy.  
“Um,” said Sam.  
“Check it out,” Jake nodded towards the entrance, and Sam blanched. Two figures, dressed in solid black, stood with their backs to the group as security scanned their identichips. They were heavily armed, guns and tasers, and wore plated body armour over their torsos. On their back plating was emblazoned the insignia of the Central Government Elite Guard: a sword imposed on a cross, and the motto _Deus meus est scutum_.  
“There’s been some trouble in the Northern Provinces lately,” Elder Harvelle appeared suddenly, making them all jump and turn back around to face her. She was a handsome woman of forty or so, stern and no-nonsense, whose fierce intellect was evident in her brown eyes. Sam could not imagine she was ever less than entirely serious. “Terrorist attacks by the Resistance.”  
Sam’s eyes widened. The Resistance was largely a myth to him – he had learned about it in class of course, its history and infamous leaders, but it had never encroached on his life, or his consciousness in any sense other than the academic. But then he had never been to the Northern Precincts. Jake whistled lowly. Elder Harvelle ignored him.  
“We’re not expecting any trouble,” she went on. “But the Government has kindly provided us with some extra security.” She nodded towards the Elite Guard soldiers, who were finishing with identity checks, and they turned around.  
Sam’s heart stopped.  
He’d thought that was only a figure of speech, but he actually felt it stutter. One Guard was a woman, dark-skinned and calm-faced, and other –  
—The other was his prisoner. Without doubt.  
The man had aged, slightly, a few more lines around his startling green eyes, and the outfit made him look older. A thin pale scar ran from one corner of his mouth to the side of his chin, moving with his facial expressions. He was still freckled, even more ridiculous in contrast with the lethal-looking weapons holstered at various points on his body. Sam saw the recognition in his face, surprise, quickly changed to a shit-eating grin, and he mouthed, _Law Kid!_ , before joining his counterpart in saluting the Elder.  
“In God and the State,” Elder Harvelle acknowledged them with a nod.  
“The vehicle is prepared, Elder,” said the female Guard.  
“Very good,” said Elder Harvelle. “I will lead us in prayer, and then we will proceed.” They formed a small circle out of habit, and the Elder pronounced,  
“Heavenly Father, bless this convoy, and all who travel on this mission of peace to bring Your Word in the Wisdom of the State to our brethren in the Northern Provinces. Turn aside the hands of those who would assail Your messengers, be swift in Justice to them, aid and protect those who would do Your Will, in the service of the One State which is Of You and With You. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy State, Amen.”  
“Amen,” echoed the group.  
“We will proceed,” said the Elder.  
They could have flown, ordinarily, and made North Province faster, but the Elder explained that certain airspace restrictions were in place due to Resistance activity. The College had chosen to make a show of being undeterred, taking roads and off-roads in a large personnel carrier with a driver and the College and State insignias blazoned on either side. The female Guard sat up front with the driver, and Sam’s prisoner – Guard – chatted easily to the Elder as they took their places in the spacious 12-seater. Elder Harvelle didn’t smile, but she didn’t completely rebuff him either, which Sam would’ve thought was her usual response to small talk. Two further Guards were to follow them in a separate vehicle, linked to their unit via com-sets. Sam took a seat at the very back of the vehicle, making himself as small as was physically possible with his new height.  
They pulled out of the parking lot and directly out of the industrial area, on to the main highways where there was little to see out of the windows. Sam’s Guard walked up and down the aisle, greeting everyone once they had taken their seats as though he was on a pleasure trip. Eva/Ella gave him a distinct second look as he passed her, appreciation in her expression. His Guard winked at her, then looked up and caught Sam’s eye, smiled and made his way over.  
“This is a surprise,” he said, leaning over the back of the seat in front of him. His voice was the same — surprisingly deep for his pretty face —and dry as though everything amused him. Sam glanced quickly around the seats but no-one was paying attention: the Elder was absorbed in her e-reader, Jake was texting, and the girl and the pale boy were making quiet conversation.  
“You can say that again,” Sam said, feeling cornered.  
“So you’re some kind of genius, I hear, Law Kid?”  
“What? Hear from who?”  
His Guard shrugged. “People.”  
“And my name’s Sam.” And look, he’d revealed more information for none in return, but he didn’t like being called Law Kid.  
His Guard nodded.  
“Well – what’s yours?!” Good God. What was he, seven years old?  
“JH76224.”  
“Oh come on.”  
“Eh, it’s not a name you want to associate with.”  
“Speaking of…” Sam raised his eyebrows. “Elite Guard? How do you go from a holding cell to…?”  
“Now, now Sammy, the State doesn’t waste resources,” his Guard raised a finger as though he was giving a lecture. “After all they’ve invested in my training. Turns out I didn’t do so well as a grunt. ‘Persistent disobedience undeterred by routine methods’”. He made quotey fingers in the air when he said it. The guy was never still, all contained energy, and Sam found himself following his movements with something like fascination.  
“But you’re good at this?”  
“The best,” said his Guard proudly, and the scar near his mouth jumped. “The stuff terrorist nightmares are made of. Resistance fighters check under their bunks for _me_ at night, Sammy.”  
“It’s Sam.”  
“You look more like a Sammy to me.”  
“Look I’m…” Sam trailed off a little helplessly. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. I thought about you after that night—” Well, that came out awesome – “I mean I’m sorry for what happened to you at the Central Jail. If I’d known about the security guy I wouldn’t have turned you in.”  
The Guard actually paused for a moment in recollection, then replied, “What, _that_? A little working over by a school babysitter with a compensatory baton? Jesus, Sammy, forget it. I have. Just another day at the office.”  
Sam’s mouth hung open a little, not sure if he was more shocked by the profanity or the dismissal. Finally, he said,  
“It’s Sam,” again. Then, “Well I’m glad things – worked out for you. That you got – promoted, or whatever.”  
“Things always do, somehow,” the Guard shrugged, and then appeared to consider something. “Dean,” he said abruptly, offering his hand for Sam to shake. Sam took it, feeling vaguely emasculated by the easy strength in the grip. “I’m glad things are working out for you too. Envoy and all. Top ranking Novice or whatever.” The small communicator attached to his belt chirped then. He clicked it off and said into it,  
“Go ahead,” turning away from Sam with another wink and walking back up the aisle. Sam watched him go, broad shoulders tapering to lean hips, and crushed the swell of desire down with a quick mental recitation. Wished he had a rubber band to snap. Discipline.  
The lecture and subsequent conference went off seamlessly – Sam took copious notes, answered questions from curious Northerners about Central College, raised what he hoped were perceptive questions and partook in the guided tours and hosted dinner. He saw very little of the city, and the College was a smaller, less ornate version of Central. From his perspective, the main difference between the Precincts was the temperature. His Guard – Dean – made himself scarce, hanging around the vehicles mostly, and whenever Sam saw him he was talking mechanics with the drivers as though they were old buddies. He reminded Sam oddly of Jessica – both she and Dean had captured Sam’s attention despite himself, took too much of his thought from work, and they had that same easiness with all sorts of people: confident, talkative, tactile. Both were beautiful.  
Two days passed; they filed back into the vehicle. Sam was hunched up against a wind chill for which he wasn’t dressed, and rubbed his arms vigorously as he took his seat at the back again. Dean eyed him with obvious amusement, and Sam glared. He turned his face pointedly to look out of the window, and they didn’t talk again.  
An hour into the return journey, the female Guard left the cab of the van, talking quietly into her communicator. She gestured to Dean who stood up; they conferred in low voices.  
“Slight change of plans, folks,” Dean announced, “We’re making a detour.”  
“What’s the problem?” Elder Harvelle looked up sharply.  
“Nothing we can’t handle, Elder. Just a couple of clowns trying to get up our—”  
“There is a possibility we are being followed,” said the second Guard.  
The Elder frowned and made to stand up.  
“Please stay in your seats,” said the Guard, clicking her com off, and moving back up front to confer with the driver. The Novices all shared wide-eyed looks as the bus pulled off the major road and took an exit. Immediately, flat earth and scrubby bushes were visible from the windows.  
“Resistance?” asked the pale boy, whose name, Sam had learned, was Max.  
“Could be. Could just as well be some punk kids just trying to cause trouble. Better safe than sorry,” Dean clapped Max on the shoulder and headed for the back of the bus.  
“Okay Sammy?”  
“Yeah.” Sam’s heart was pounding in his chest and he found himself looking all around, trying to see out of the windows.  
“Don’t worry, okay kid? Nothing’s going to happen to-” A rapid stream of gunfire cut off his words. It was louder than anything Sam thought possible, sounding practically on top of them. Metal _pinged_ with the impact of bullets and Sam clamped his hands reflexively over his ears. The bus juddered on the dirt road.  
“Fuck! Get down and cover your heads!” Dean ordered all the civilians, but he actually pushed Sam, one hand on his back between his shoulder blades, before drawing his weapon. The other Guard leapt off the bus to join the rest of their unit, but Dean smashed the back window of the bus with the butt of his gun and started aiming at the snipers already on the ground. A bullet whizzed by him and straight through the bus, shattering the front windscreen, Ava screamed and Jake started muttering a prayer under his breath. Sam couldn’t pray. He made himself as small and tightly curled as possible, gunfire shaking his bones and rattling his eardrums. _‘This is how I die.’_  
The female Guard’s voice came at maximum volume over Dean’s communicator,  
“Incendiary rounds. Get them out of there.”  
At that instant, something struck near the bottom of the bus with a crack then a hiss, and Sam immediately smelled gas, and then heard the crackle of fire. Smoke rose from the floor beneath them.  
“Everybody off, single file, calm. We’ll cover you,” Dean ordered.  
“What?” Shouted Max. “We’ll be sitting ducks!”  
“You’d rather be crispy duck? There’s a dell at the side of the road. I said we’ll cover you!” Dean gestured with his gun then returned a series of quick shots – Sam heard a man scream. Two of the Guards from the following vehicle ran up to the transport, and covered the civilians as they hurried from the bus with their heads down. Sam tried not to look at anything but the ground between his feet. The dell was close. Then in front of him, one of the Guards stiffened suddenly, gurgled and collapsed. Blood pulsed from an open wound in his throat, and his brown eyes were wide, surprised for a moment, and then dimmed as Sam stared.  
“MOVE!” Dean shouted, and then the dell was surrounding them, cool dimness, Ava was pressed up against Sam, Max on his other side. Both were shaking, or perhaps he was, their breaths short and sharp together, and God, to think they’d been wary of each other, friendly rivals, and now they would die here. Ava clutched his hand.  
“Our Father,” said Elder Harvelle calmly, and the words came to Sam automatically, but the image of the dying Guard with the blood pulsing from his ruined throat remained foremost at his mind. Three rounds of rapid fire.  
Silence.  
“Status,” Dean and the female Guard were at the head of the dell; she was speaking into her com.  
“Threat neutralized,” came a crackly voice. “No casualties, one wounded.”  
“One casualty,” responded the Guard as though she were ordering a coffee, “Military. Checking serial number now; hold the line.” And she strode towards the body. Peering over the lip of the dell, Sam could make out the splayed shape, unnatural as a rag doll, no longer a person.  
“They’re…dead?” asked Ava hesitantly.  
“All clear,” Dean said. “Everyone okay?”  
“He’s dead,” Max said numbly.  
“Yeah, sort of comes with the territory,” Dean said. “None of you are hurt?”  
The civilians murmured assent. Elder Harvelle thanked God. Dean was standing at the entrance to the dell, and at that moment, the daylight above them revealed to Sam the brief flicker of his wry smile. Sam said,  
“Amen.”  
After the Guards had made a final check, the civilians were allowed up to the surface. The bus was shot, both literally and in a manner of speaking, but the Guards had already radioed for a replacement. The convoy arrived back at Central College just two hours later than scheduled. The dead man was never mentioned.  
The Novices were not allowed to tell anyone else what had happened on the trip, had to go straight into dinner and field questions like, ‘Was it fun?’, ‘What’s Northern College like?’, ‘Was there free booze?’. Jess could tell something was wrong; she kept shooting little glances at Sam and squeezing his hand under the table, but he just returned bland smiles. He retreated to his room as soon as possible after dinner, claiming work to catch up on, and there, to his own disgust, he touched himself. He hadn’t known he was going to do it, but all of a sudden he needed to. He told himself it was a natural reaction to stress, snapped a rubber band on his wrist several times, and fell into uneasy sleep.

* * *

The next morning he prayed hard by rote, and sat dazedly through his classes. Last period was Church History. Ten minutes before the end, whilst Sam was uncharacteristically planning his escape, Dr. Bianchi looked up in surprise at the firm knock at the door. It was rare for anyone’s class to be interrupted. Elder Murphy entered without awaiting permission, nodded to his colleague then made eye-contact with Sam.  
“The Board requires the presence of Novice Samuel,” he said quietly, in a tone that brooked no argument. Sam’s stomach dropped. Jake was in this class, so it wasn’t like everyone who had been on the trip was being called, and Sam had the feeling this wasn’t an award or interview. He stood obediently and followed Elder Murphy out of the door. As soon as they were out in the corridor, he asked,  
“What is it?”  
“Best you just come and see,” said Elder Murphy, his head down, expression unreadable.  
Almost the full Board had convened in the chamber, eighteen out of twenty Elders. The surprise of that, and the grim expressions they wore with the ceremonial layers, distracted Sam momentarily. That might be why the nineteenth figure, relaxed but alert in the shade beneath one of the huge arced windows, escaped Sam’s notice for a second. Then the figure stepped out of the shade and regarded Sam with a nod and the vaguest hint of a rebellious grin. Sam exclaimed out loud,  
“Dean!” 

 

3.

“So am I allowed to use the bathroom by myself?” Sam said nastily. He got mean was he was frightened, and right now, with an Elite Guard casually unpacking his sparse possessions on the empty bed in Sam’s room, Sam was more or less terrified.  
“I’m gonna say yes,” said Dean smoothly. “You’re a target wherever you go, of course, but that one’s a risk I’m just about willing to take. It might blow my cover.”  
Sam stared at him for a moment, trying to work out what _that_ was supposed to mean, then put it out of his mind for more pressing worries. He was a target. Sam’s head was spinning. He sat down on the bed and put his head on his hands. None of it made any sense. The whole attack yesterday had been about him - _he_ was the rebels’ target. During the firefight, the Guards had reported, the Resistance terrorists had demanded that they hand Sam over, promising to cease fire on his surrender.  
“I’m no-one,” Sam said aloud, his fingers pressed over his closed eyes. “A student, and a ward of the State. I don’t even have a family. My parents died when I was a baby. I’ve never done anything, crossed anyone, I don’t have any money or power. What in God’s name do they want with me? They were willing to _kill_ for me.”  
Dean didn’t answer. Instead, stowed his now-empty backpack under his bunk, and said,  
“We wouldn’t have done it. Handed you over, I mean. We don’t negotiate with terrorists.”  
“That Guard died for me.”  
“Newsflash,” Dean said: “Soldiers die every day. Kind of comes with the job description.”  
“Why do you do it? I mean, why are you a soldier?”  
“I’m not,” Dean reminded him. He gestured to his new outfit: neatish blue jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt with the College logo name and logo emblazoned over the chest. “As of now, I am Central College’s Novice Peter West, your roommate and new best buddy. Get used to it.” Then he opened a small case and put on a pair of steel-rimmed glasses, instantly transforming his face. Glasses made most people look older, in Sam’s experience, but these had the opposite effect, drawing attention to Dean’s big eyes and away from the scar near his mouth. The efficient and lethal soldier was effectively replaced by an idealistic Novice. Sam swallowed hard. Then,  
“How old are you?” he asked suddenly.  
“Twenty.”  
“No I mean really. Not Peter – Dean.”  
“Look.” Dean sat down on his bunk and addressed Sam seriously. “You’re a good kid, Sammy. It’s a shame all this shit has to happen to you, and I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. But…the best way I can do that is if you leave it alone. Don’t get all attached. Don’t ask too many questions. Hell it’s not like they tell _us_ anything – you can’t leak what you don’t know. What I’m saying is, let’s keep this professional. Let me do my job. Trust me, there’s nothing interesting or mysterious about me – I’m a soldier, been in training pretty much my whole life, got in some trouble as you know, got made Guard. That’s it. I’m here to protect you, not be your friend, so just go about your life, do whatever you do as much as possible, and just…let me do my job.”  
It was the longest speech he had yet heard from the man, and it hardly reassured him. Rebuffed, Sam said,  
“Alright,” and reached for the bottom of his shirt by force of habit before stopping. “I’m going to…change in the bathroom.” He felt a blush rise on his face. Dean shrugged.  
In the absence of a rubber band, Sam pressed his fingernails into the palms of his hands and thought about temptation, spent a few moments quashing the weird hot feeling low in his stomach and turned the shower to very cold.

* * *  
The others who had been on the trip must have been warned – they obviously recognized Dean, and Ava did a noticeable double-take, but none of them came over and spoke to him or asked Sam what he was doing. Nonetheless, ‘Peter West’ drew a fair deal of attention at breakfast that morning, ranging from subtle glances to outright flirtatious comments. Dean seemed to be enjoying it; he’d been fed or had fabricated a whole backstory about Peter’s previous life in the South, his misspent youth, revelation of God, and subsequent application of his academic talents.  
“God is good,” he attested wide-eyed, in total transformation from the sarcastic soldier. “He has blessed me with a second chance to serve Him in the State. I’m very happy to be here.” The last statement was made directly to Jessica, and Sam nearly choked on his orange juice. Jess looked like she was trying not to smile, halfway between charmed and annoyed at the knife-edge balance of sincerity and blatant opportunism. Dean insinuated Peter rapidly into College life – everyone liked him, and he was soon invited everywhere Sam was – but the amount of time they spent together was still notable.  
 _So u and Pete really hit it off?_ Jess texted him. Dean received the text too – his phone and email was set to intercept all Sam’s communications.  
 _Yeah he’s a good guy_. How else could Sam answer?  
 _Cool. Miss u tho. U want to catch a movie l8r? Just u and me?_.  
“Miss you?” Dean asked sharply, reading his phone from the other side of the dorm room. “You didn’t tell me you were together.”  
“We’re…not. Not really. I mean…”  
“Huh. Well it’s pretty clear what _she_ means, if you catch my drift. Break it off.”  
“What?”  
“It’s not safe. If you care at all about her, back off now.”  
“I…” Sam lowered his head. Shit. Of course, now that he was a _target_ , he should’ve known any kind of relationship would be…  
 _Sorry_ , he texted back to Jess. _Got to study_.  
There was a long pause. Then,  
 _OK._ No _xxx_ , no _c u soon_.  
“Good job,” said Dean approvingly. “I’m gonna scope out the corridor. Don’t move from your bed.”  
Sam sighed and picked up a textbook. Work was about all he had left to distract him.

* * *  
A week passed and became two – at the end of each day, Dean filed a mission report using Sam’s computer, which Sam wasn’t allowed to read, though Dean said he would let Sam know anything he needed to know. Which apparently was nothing. Sam took his frustrations out in the gym. He’d recently quit the soccer team - too many questions about where he was and what he was doing these days, and the long light nights of July left him restless and agitated.  
‘Peter’ came to the gym with him of course. It was part of his job, and Dean was probably required to keep up his physical training. Sam tried not to be impressed by his new workout partner’s endurance or capabilities on the weight bench – and tried even harder to keep his eyes on his own heart-rate monitor. There was now no denying it – he was one of those unfortunates tempted by unnatural desires for his own sex. Given a choice between touching Jess’s body and touching Dean’s, there was no doubt which he would prefer. He could appreciate the aesthetic appeal of a woman – could not say there was _no_ desire inspired her warm, fit, living body – he was a healthy eighteen-year-old male, after all, and by God, these things took up a lot of his thoughts these days. But his feelings for Dean - his attraction – was on a totally different scale. The difference between smelling chocolate and tasting it. Between a candle and a hearth fire. God. Dean fresh from the shower, moisture still on his skin - Dean was an exhibitionist, wandering around the changing rooms in only a towel, his fit, scarred body on immodest display. Well why wouldn’t he? Sam was probably the only one in the College burdened with those tendencies. God. Didn’t he have enough crosses to bear without the prospect of lifelong celibacy, or a false and unfair marriage to a friend?  
He took to wearing a rubber band on his wrist everywhere he went – Dean caught him snapping it once or twice, and gave him an odd look, but he didn’t ask, and Sam didn’t volunteer. He threw himself back into work with a vengeance – end of year exams were looming, and Sam was expected to score in the top 5% in all of his classes. It was a good excuse to closet himself. Social life quieted down at this time in any case: Central College students were gifted, had families with high expectations, and though some liked to posture and pretend they didn’t care about work, when it came to the crunch they studied hard.  
Dean didn’t seem to pray.  
That was assumptive on Sam’s part, obviously. People prayed in their own ways, and maybe he did it in his head, or late at night, when Sam was asleep. But everyone was supposed to be in prayer at Church, weren’t they, and Dean mostly looked bored at the Sunday services. He probably missed his own church, Sam thought, the one he’d grown up with – God was everywhere, but humans needed crutches to feel Him sometimes, and got attached to particular places. Sam missed the little church in his old school, with its wooden panels and dark red candles.  
“There are, uh, private chapels,” Sam offered once, interrupting his own revision.  
“Excuse me?”  
“If you want somewhere else to pray. I mean…” he shifted uncomfortably. “The Great Church isn’t for everyone. Some people feel closer to God in a smaller place…”  
“Uh,” Dean laughed. “That’s okay. Me and the big man upstairs are pretty much on the same terms wherever I go.”  
Sam scowled. “Don’t blaspheme, please.”  
Dean shrugged and pressed a few more buttons on Sam’s computer, sending his report off.  
“Whatever. Daresay the old man’s got bigger problems with humans than what I call him. If he cares…”  
“Of course He _cares_!” Sam was outraged. “He _created_ us!” His heart thudded. If the Elders could hear Dean talk like this…  
“Sure, okay.” Dean spun the chair around. “I’m gonna scope out the corridor. You know the drill.”  
“Wait,” said Sam a little desperately. “Are you suggesting you don’t – you’re not a _heretic?_.” He lowered his voice at the last word, for all the times he’d pronounced it with confidence in History or Law class, it carried the weight of damnation now.  
“School doesn’t teach you everything Sammy,” Dean said. Then, paradoxically: “Do your homework.”  
Sam stared at his e-reader until the text blurred.

4.

SECURITY TO CENTRAL OFFICE OF THE HIEROPHANT.  
RE:CODENAME‘SLEEPER’ 06/06/1994

INVESTIGATION SUGGESTS WEAPON IS EXTANT AND BIOLOGICAL: SEE ATTACHED.  
RECOMMEND INTENSIVE MONITORING OF SUBJECTS A AND B BEGIN IMMEDIATELY; ALL POSSIBLE RECORDS TO BE RETRIEVED.  
END REPORT.  
AUTHORISED AS OF THIS DATE  
GENERAL R Q ZACHARIAH  
CHIEF OF STATE SECURITY  
IN THE GLORY OF GOD AND THE STATE.

 

Central College of the Holy Government.  
July, 2013.

Exams were upon them. Sam aced every test, came out top in Law, and made the top 5% in all his other classes. Then came parties: formal garden parties in the summer weather with the Elders in attendance, and Novice parties after dark with bootlegged alcohol through a contact of Ash’s. The Elders turned a deliberate blind eye to the young people’s festivities, so long as they kept up their Church attendance, kept the day rules, and didn’t injure themselves or each other to degrees requiring hospitalization. Jess kissed Sam in public at a dorm party. ‘Peter’ watched.  
Sam wondered what Dean wrote in the exams. He attended them all for the sake of the show, sat his terminal and tapped blithely into the computer, looking for all the world like a serious and interested Novice. He could have been writing ‘ _The State is a lie_ ’ for all Sam knew. He bit the inside of his cheek at the thought.  
If there were any attempts on Sam’s life, he knew nothing about them. If he ever tried to ask Dean, Dean shot him down with a cold look, and even Elder Murphy told him not to ask questions. The greatest mystery was still, to Sam, what anyone could possibly want with him He made lists, mental and physical, of everything he knew about his life. It wasn’t much.  
 _Parents: Laura and Simon Parker. Teachers. Deceased. Vehicle accident 10/04/1994. I was 6 months. No memories.  
Orphanage of St. John the Baptist – Province 3A – 1994-2010.  
State School West – Province 3A - 1998-2010  
2010 – accepted to Christ’s College West, 2 yrs, then picked for Central College. Started here Oct 2012._  
That last was the only thing vaguely notable: rare, but hardly unheard of. One of the Elders at Christ’s had recommended him to Central, he’d been tested and interviewed, and plucked from obscurity to come live at the most prestigious College in the State. Orphan boy made good. Well, he was smart. Extremely smart, even. So what? Surely not so clever that the Resistance had any special need of him? They had extremely smart people of their own – they had geniuses of Ash’s calibre, weapons and communications specialists, elite spies. The only other possibility was something to do with his birth. Yet he knew who his parents were – he’d seen records – respectable, unremarkable citizens, who’d led quiet lives, happily married with one child until their premature death in an unavoidable vehicle accident caused by weather conditions. Sam did not remember them at all, and consequently, had nothing to go on whatsoever.  
Until a warm night at the start of August, when the world changed again

* * *

Occasionally Sam had nightmares. Same as everyone. When he was stressed or worried about something – there was one where he was back at the orphanage, only at his current age, trying to explain to people that he didn’t need to be there, that he was an adult now; that he went to Central College on a full scholarship, but nobody seemed to hear him. That one always left him uneasy, but relieved when he woke up. Then there was another, more frightening –, about fire, and deep booms like explosives, black and red shadows dancing like primitive paintings of Hell. He didn’t understand that one, but it had been with him for as long as he could remember.  
At 02:34hrs, on the fourth of August, 2013, Sam sat bolt upright in bed and started screaming. Dean was up with his weapon drawn immediately, his back to Sam as he swung from the door to the window –  
“Not here!” Sam shouted. “Max’s room, hurry, he’s going to _kill himself!_ ”  
At 03:00hrs the same morning, an unconscious Max Miller was stretchered from the College premises, the gun he had readied to blow his brains out confiscated and emptied, into a van waiting to take him to the hospital whilst the Central psychiatric facility was contacted. A few spare security guards stood around, quietly complimenting Dean on the speed with which he had disarmed Max before knocking him out when Max wouldn’t stop yelling. Elder Harvelle, Elder Murphy, Sam and Dean stood in their nightclothes in the South foyer, as the night staff on reception tried to look like they weren’t staring at the dramatic tableau.  
“You might have waited until he could be sedated, soldier,” said Elder Harvelle to Dean, mildly intimidating even in her nightgown and robe.  
Sorry Elder,” Dean said charmingly. “I wasn’t certain if he was a threat or not. He was pretty hysterical.”  
“Hmm well,” said Elder Murphy. “Not that I don’t appreciate the seriousness of your mission here, but try to refrain from damaging the Novices if possible?”  
“Oh he’s not damaged,” Dean dismissed. “Not any more than he was, I mean.”  
“Speaking of which…” Elder Harvelle turned her gaze to Sam and back to Dean. “Tell me again how you knew Max was planning suicide?”  
“I dreamed it,” Sam said. Dean drew in an audible breath.  
“I’m sorry?” Elder Harvelle’s look was hard.  
“I – dreamed it,” Sam repeated, a vague uneasy feeling beginning to take root deep in his stomach. “I had a dream that Max shot himself and I – I knew it was true.”  
“That’s impossible.” Harvelle’s thin mouth twitched slightly.  
“God is mysterious, Ellen,” Elder Murphy said. “There have been many dreamers-”  
“Jim, please!”  
“Samuel is an honest young man.”  
“Well of course he is. But it’s been a traumatic night for everyone and no doubt he is misremembering. Did Max perhaps talk to you yesterday, Samuel? Did he seem – disturbed?”  
Dean looked directly at Sam, gaze intent. Sam paused. Then,  
“Yes,” he lied. “Yes, Elder. I’m sorry, I must have – I was dreaming, and…”  
“Understandable. We’ll talk about this in the morning.” Was it Sam’s imagination, or did she look relieved? “This is hardly the time or place for this conversation. Dismissed,” she nodded to Sam and Dean.  
“Oh my God,” said Sam, sinking onto his bunk back in the dorm room. “As if I didn’t have enough problems.”  
“Don’t be stupid,” Dean said. “Harvelle’s right. Max must have said something to you, and like, your subconscious picked up on it…” he trailed off, gesturing expansively.  
“And what – my subconscious internal alarm system kicked in at the _exact moment_ Max was about to kill himself?”  
Dean shrugged.  
“Do you really believe this was a co-incidence?” Sam turned so that Dean couldn’t avoid his gaze except by turning away. Which Dean did. Then he said,  
“No. I don’t.”  
“So,” Sam said. “I’m cursed.”  
“Well whatever,” Dean snapped. “Don’t freaking _advertise_. Tell the Board Max was talking some scary shit during the day and you had a bad feeling about it. That’s what they want to believe so that’s what they believe. Hell, tell them he dropped you a suicidal email.”  
“Systems would have logged it. Why…why don’t they want to believe that I…?”  
“Sammy,” Dean had been pacing, but he sat now, and fixed Sam with a serious gaze. “Take it from me that it’s in your interest to keep quiet about this.”  
Pause.  
“You know something,” Sam said, the certainty of it a cold wave from his chest settled heavily in his stomach. “Something about me.”  
“Yes,” Dean said.  
“What?”  
“It really wouldn’t be a good idea for me to tell you.”  
“Bullshit! I have a right to know!” Sam stood up and Dean stood up immediately to meet him. Sam had the height advantage but Dean was stronger, and moved like the trained killer he was, easily catching Sam’s right wrist below the fist he’d clenched involuntarily. He pressed something and Sam’s fingers opened.  
“Don’t be stupid,” Dean said, gripping Sam’s wrist hard enough to hurt. Heat sparked in Sam’s lower belly and he quashed it, furious. “My job is to keep you safe,” Dean said. “I know you think you know everything and I’m just a dumb grunt, but believe me when I tell you that I _do_ know how to do my job. And I can do it a shitload better if you take my advice about what you do and do not need to know.” His voice was tight, his eyes hot green and angry. Sam had never seen that before. Dean pushed him. It wasn’t hard, and it wouldn’t have forced Sam to sit back down if he hadn’t already been off balance. Dean turned and went to the computer, tension in the set of his back and shoulders.  
“I – don’t think you’re dumb,” Sam offered after a moment.  
“Well most people are dumb compared to you Sammy.” The humor was back. Sam breathed out. Dean angry had shaken him – for the first time, Sam understood that his constant companion could easily kill him with his bare hands. He swallowed.  
“But…” Sam was nothing if not persistent. “I do think I should know. Please. It’s not fair to keep secrets about me.”  
“Holy crap,” Dean said. “Life isn’t fair.”  
“How old are you really?”  
“Shut up.”  
“No go on. Tell me something. If you know something about me, I deserve to know something about you.”  
“Twenty-three.”  
“Oh.” Sam was a little surprised, but didn’t know if he’d been expecting older or younger. “Well that’s hardly wise and ancient, is it? How come you’re responsible enough to know this great dark secret?”  
“Uhhh, cause the Resistance aren’t _interested_ in me, maybe?”  
“They will be,” Sam frowned. “They will be now, what with…I’m putting _you_ in danger. I’m sorry.”  
“Are you kidding? Look, I could be up to my ass in mud, blood and guts right now, or looking for a bomb that’s about to take out half the street, or…- this is the cushiest gig I’ve had since I got promoted to Guard! Hell, _ever_. The food alone. Which reminds me…” Dean reached under his bunk and produced a Ziploc bag, which contained an extra slice of the peach pie they’d been served at dinner the previous night. “The new server likes me.” He appraised the rather squashed pie, broke a piece off, and offered it to Sam.  
“Uh. No,” Sam shook his head. “Thanks.” He felt more like puking than eating. Three minutes ago he’d been ready to punch Dean, and now, inexplicably, he was charmed all over again. Tiredness settled over him heavily, extinguishing the last flickers of arousal that stuttered through his body from where Dean had touched him. He turned over and closed his eyes, turning his light off and pretending to go back to sleep. “Don’t get crumbs all over the bed,” he said.  
“It’s my bed.”  
“It’s my _room_ , and I don’t want bugs in here.”  
“Christ. You really are a princess, aren’t you?”  
Sam said nothing. Aberrant desires, prophetic dreams, and some...secret the Resistance was prepared to _kill_ for. He pressed his hands into his eyes and held his breath. As though he could squash it all back inside until it suffocated and died in him. Red static formed on the inside of his eyelids, kaleidoscopic. It was an actual effort to start breathing again, and he didn’t go back to sleep.

* * *

SECURITY TO CENTRAL OFFICE OF THE HIEROPHANT.  
RE:CODENAME‘SLEEPER’ 06/06/2013.

SUBJECT B EXHBITS NO CHANGE UPON EXPOSURE.  
MONITORING CONTINUES.

AUTHORISED AS OF THIS DATE GENERAL R Q ZACHARIAH  
CHIEF OF STATE SECURITY  
IN THE GLORY OF GOD AND THE STATE.

* * *

Ever since he’d been too old for the orphanage, the long summer holidays were Sam’s worst time of year. He had nowhere to go, no exams, no assignments near due, and educational institutions gradually emptied as people went home to their families or away on vacation. Jess, Ash and Jake had all invited him on group ventures, but his stipend didn’t cover luxuries. College fed him and gave him enough allowance for personal necessities. Travel for pleasure was beyond his means.  
Jess understood: she’d asked, quietly, if he wanted to come to her home for a week or two – it wouldn’t cost anything.  
“Uh, your parents…”  
“Are falling over themselves to meet you. You’re the famous scholarship kid, Sam. My mother is practically planning our wedding.” It was a joke, of course, but was it his imagination that the lightness of her tone was just a little forced, made the prospect a little too blatantly ridiculous? That sealed it – Jess meant a ‘you and me’ trip, a boy-girl trip, to be exact, in which the boy met the parents and it would make no explicable sense for said boy to bring along a roommate who would probably try to flirt with Jessica’s mother.  
“No,” he said finally. “Thanks, Jess. But…”  
“But?”  
Sam averted his eyes, shifted his feet a little.  
“It’s not you it’s me?” she asked dryly.  
“Exactly,” Sam sighed. They had been walking in the North Quad and they neared the gates. Jess was carrying a bag – she was on her way to a lawn picnic with some of her girlfriends. Now Sam stopped and turned to face her. “You are…great. You’re really great, Jess. Clever and funny and kind and…and beautiful. Really beautiful. But I can’t – it wouldn’t be fair to you.”  
She looked at him. And the understanding was plain in her eyes. Her mouth quirked, and he didn’t know if it meant derision.  
“I’m sorry,” she said, finally. “It must be hard.”  
“Can’t always have what you want,” Sam shrugged. Then: “God knows best for us.”  
“Yeah. Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed,” she sighed and hitched up her back. “Most men our age are children – you’re by _far_ the most interesting thing that’s happened to this College in recent memory.”  
 _‘You don’t know the half of it’,_ Sam thought wryly.  
“But you’re right – it wouldn’t be fair, to either of us, and I _am_ pretty great.” She grinned.  
“You really are.” He smiled back. Relieved.  
“You are too,” she assured him. “Sam. I don’t think any less of you. Everyone’s tested somehow. It’s just…something you have to deal with.”  
“Exactly,” he nodded emphatically.  
“Wait – you are?” she scrutinized him suddenly. “Dealing with it, I mean? You’re not in trouble?”  
“No, no,” he assured her. “It’s all – under control.  
“We’ll still be friends,” she said.  
“Always.”  
She opened her arms. They hugged. It was nice – comforting, affirming.  
“Enjoy your party,” he waved her off, and turned back down the path. Dean was watching him from an interior window, and he wasn’t allowed any further than the end of the lawn.  
Fairly soon College was down to cleaning staff. A few Elders stuck around on circular rotation: to pray, to study, to give lectures and panels at the various conferences the College held over the Summer. Sam read, prayed, worked out, and kept replacing the rubber band on his wrist for harder, tighter ones. Dean was always with him. It was maddening in more ways than one.  
“Why did you decide to become a soldier?” It was lunchtime. Only a handful of people had gone to the dining hall, and the chef clearly wanted to leave, so they’d taken their trays outside for a picnic on the forbidden grass, feeding the College ducks bits of pizza and salad. The ducks were something of a College institution, roaming freely over the territory of both Novices and Elders. They had no fear of humans, and no qualms about ganging up and harassing people for food, waddling up in large phalanxes that could be quite intimidating through sheer force of numbers. Sam threw bits of crust to the back of the mob – the ducks fell all over each other, squawking and flapping.  
“I didn’t,” Dean said, slipping a piece of cheese to a skinny duck with a lame leg, and clapping to scare off the fat sleek bird that tried to take it away. Sam frowned.  
“There’s no more draft. Not since the uprisings before we were born.”  
“Not officially. But what else d’you think they do with wards of the State who don’t turn out to be geniuses?”  
Sam stared. “You’re a ward of the State?”  
“What, you think you were the first?”  
“What happened to your parents?”  
“Dead.”  
“No other family?”  
“Nope.”  
“Do you uh…do you remember them?”  
“Yeah I do. Sort of. I was four, but I’ve got these images…the important stuff stays with you, you know?”  
“Sure.”  
“They uh…they died in a fire.” Dean coughed. “House went up.”  
“That’s – horrendous. My parents died in a vehicle accident,” Sam offered. “I don’t remember.”  
“Hmm.”  
“They tell me it was quick, though. Uh, do you, do you remember the fire?”  
“Yeah.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
Dean shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”  
“So you grew up in an orphanage too?”  
“St. Mary’s.”  
“St. John the Baptist. They sent me to school though.”  
“Me too. I was pretty shit at it,” Dean grinned. “State can always use more drones, though, I guess.”  
“Don’t talk about it like that,” Sam frowned. “Our troops do God’s work.”  
Dean’s mouth quirked, the same gesture Jess made. “God is the State.”  
“The State is God’s body on earth,” Sam corrected.  
“Same difference.”  
“So they just…told you to go to the army?”  
“They presented my options,” Dean grinned ruefully. “The army or the streets.”  
“They’d kick you out?”  
“Homelessness does exist you know. Visit the Southern Provinces.” With that, Dean seemed to decide he’d revealed enough for one day. “What d’you wanna do?”  
“Read,” Sam decided.  
“Of course you do. Don’t mind me, I’ll just die of boredom.”  
Sam rolled his eyes. “I won’t tell anyone if you want to leave for a bit.”  
Dean stared at him, green eyes wide. “Uh, Sammy? Mortal danger? Resistance plot to kidnap and/or assassinate you? Any of this ringing a bell?”  
Sam sighed. He knew Dean was right, really, but the further away the shooting got, the more surreal it became. The afternoon was peaceful and sunny. The thought of terrorists infiltrating the College seemed impossible, like a movie.  
It was that kind of wishful thinking, of course, that got him sideswiped completely.

5\. 

October, 2013.

Classes resumed – new students, and a handful of new tutors. Sam wasn’t the new kid anymore, and he wasn’t news. He started a module in Composition and Rhetoric, under the newly employed Dr. Lugosi. Not being an Elder, Dr. Lugosi wouldn’t know about Dean’s mission, so Sam found himself in a difficult position when Lugosi looked up from his desk and the papers she was marking to say,  
“Samuel? May I see you outside for a moment?”  
“Uh…” Sam said. He could feel Dean’s eyes on the back of his head. “I-”  
“Now if you wouldn’t mind.” Lugosi indicated the paper she was holding, and Sam realized it was his own. He had no choice but to get up, making eye-contact with no-one, and follow the young tutor out of the classroom.  
“My office is just here,” Dr. Lugosi said, indicating for Sam to go ahead through the door to one of the large office suites -  
\- which he did, and found himself staring straight down the barrel of a gun, as Lugosi closed the door quietly behind them and advised him calmly,  
“Don’t scream.”  
“What – what is this?” asked Sam, failing to keep the tremor out of his voice.  
“We call it a kidnapping,” Lugosi said pleasantly in her crisp English tones, coming around to face Sam and smiling. “I must say, for a supposed genius, you’re not particularly quick on the uptake.” The man holding the gun he recognized from security – two other figures dressed all in black stood casually alert at either side of the office. All were armed. Lugosi pressed a button in her desk and an electronic _beep_ signalled the door locking.  
“Why?” Sam stalled. His heart pounded, the adrenalin racing through his body making him feel sick. “What – what do you want with me?”  
“With you? Nothing. _For_ you I want the generous paycheck offered by my current clients.”  
“The Resistance,” said Sam through gritted teeth.  
“Give the boy a biscuit,” said Lugosi. “Come along now, there’s a back exit and I have no particular interest in anyone getting hurt.”  
The guard lowered the gun but kept it trained on him – Sam didn’t move, and one of the black-clad figures shoved him none too gently from behind. Sam planted his feet to the ground. His brain told him to go with them quietly, but he seemed to have frozen up.  
“Hurry up,” snapped the youngest of the kidnappers, a nervous looking boy no older than Sam himself. “Our employers aren’t patient and we’re not supposed to damage you.”  
“Frederick!” snapped Lugosi, and the other guard rolled his eyes.  
“I won’t go,” Sam said, seeing the light. “You can’t hurt me, you can’t make me.”  
“I could shoot out your kneecaps,” offered the guard. “It’s mainly your brain they’re interested in.”  
“We’re running out of time!” exclaimed the young kidnapper, waving his gun a little haphazardly. “It took too long to get him in here. Bela, you know what will happen if-”  
Several things happened at once then. The young incompetent’s gun went off, to his own surprise; he yelped, and the main door to the office swung open. Its locks had obviously been overridden. In the doorway stood Dean, Elder Harvelle, Elder Kubrick, and a couple more members of the security team. The bullet was midair, and Sam saw, clearly, how it would pierce his chest, how before the sound registered or anyone could move it would explode his sternum in a fountain of blood and bone fragments. He shouted,  
“No!”  
And from somewhere inside him, all the heat and frustration and anger, all the various passions of the last months welled up and clicked something in his brain, and he felt electricity shoot through his nervous system. His hand came up, palm out, and the bullet exploded, centimeters from him, shards shattering everywhere. People ducked, and Dean shot the boy who had fired dead centre through the forehead. The boy’s mouth opened in a wide O of surprise as a red-black hole appeared above his eyes. Then his body collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, landing with a thud on the carpet. The security team had their guns on their errant colleague, who had frozen. Bela ducked and ran for the back door. Security radioed for someone to cut her off outside, and the final kidnapper dropped her gun and put her hands up.  
“Are you okay?” Dean demanded of Sam.  
“I…” Sam stared at the body. He sat down on the floor suddenly, more from necessity than choice, and Dean’s hands were on him, brisk and efficient, checking for injuries. Satisfied, he patted Sam on the back, and stood up again.  
“What – exactly was that, Novice?” Elder Harvelle asked.  
“They tried – to kidnap me.”  
“What exactly did you _do_?”  
“That’s the end of the line, Ellen,” Kubrick said, his eyes wide and voice hushed. “May God have mercy on our souls.”  
“Get up,” said Harvelle shortly to Sam. “How did you do that?”  
“I don’t know,” Sam said miserably. He took the hand Dean offered him and got unsteadily to his feet.  
“We can’t deny it anymore!” Kubrick insisted. “You saw! You all saw it! He’s the Weapon.”  
“The what?” Sam asked, sounding faint and pathetic.  
“You’d better come with us,” Harvelle gestured to the guards, and they came up behind Sam with silent force, calm but implacable.  
“What the hell is this?” Dean demanded. “Sam’s not a criminal.”  
“Not yet,” said Kubrick, and the light in his eyes was unnerving, certain.  
“This is just a precaution.” Harvelle’s tone was conciliating. “Sam, I think it would be best for everyone if we took you somewhere safe for the immediate future.”  
“Protective custody,” said Sam.  
“That’s right.”  
“What – what am I?” Sam asked a little desperately. “How did I do that?”  
Harvelle spared him a brief, sympathetic glance before he was forcibly escorted from the office.

* * *

 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean hit the wall of the holding cell with his closed fist. Cell was too harsh a term, really – it was a room, plain but adequate, in the upper levels of the same prison block that Ash had helped Sam to infiltrate. Two beds, a couch, and a low table in the main part; a toilet, sink and shower behind a door, complete with soap and towels and plastic cups for water. A Bible and prayer book were centrally placed on the table. There was no computer, and their phones had been taken. The door was electronically locked and manually guarded from the outside. Elder Harvelle had promised that food would be delivered later.  
“Are you scared of me?” Sam asked Dean.  
“No.”  
“You should be. He said I was a – the – the Weapon.”  
“Kubrick’s fucked in the head,” Dean said shortly. “Even the Elders know that. They just keep him around cause it would look bad to have one of their own committed to a mental ward.”  
“Are you going to tell me what I am now?”  
Dean looked around. He hadn’t stopped pacing since they’d been locked up. He gestured to Sam to be quiet, then quickly and efficiently searched the room, finally producing a pen-sized microphone from under each of the beds. He disassembled both of them, rolling his eyes, altered something, and then replaced them. “Amateurs.” Then he sat back down on the bunk assigned him and looked up at Sam, inviting Sam to sit. Sam didn’t.  
Dean spread his hands.  
“Well?” Sam said.  
“You’re not a miracle. These…abilities or whatever that you have…they’re nothing to do with God. You’re...designed.”  
“We’re all designed.”  
“Enhanced, then. By humans. Look…your parents didn’t die in a car crash. They were terrorists. Ex-Resistance, or thought they were ex.” He shrugged. “It’s uh, not exactly the kind of thing you can retire from. Looks like your Mom was involved in a genetic manipulation scheme when she was pregnant with you: their women sign up to these things on the understanding the Resistance gets the baby when it’s born.” A brief expression of disgust crossed Dean’s face. “But it seems your Mom came to her senses. She and your dad bailed. Got new identities and all that. It took the Resistance less than a year to find you, and kill them.”  
“But – what – who told you this?”  
“I read your file. They gave it to me when I took this assignment.”  
Sam shook his head.  
“Sorry,” Dean offered. “Kubrick’s still fucked in the head if he thinks you’re some kind of _enemy_.”  
“That doesn’t make sense,” Sam objected. “Why didn’t the Resistance take me, then?”  
“State got some intel on the raid on your parents’ house. Intercepted. Got you out, put you in a facility.” He shrugged again. “Tracking down kids who were altered is a big priority for the Government.”  
“What – you mean – there are others?”  
“Eight alive that we know of, four in State possession. Well, that’s what they told me. Not all of them manifest abilities. And…not all of them are healthy. A bunch died at birth. It’s an…on-going experiment.”  
“That’s sick,” Sam felt like he might throw up. “That’s – that’s the worst kind of desecration. Playing God.”  
“Yeah, well, the Resistance aren’t exactly known for revering the sanctity of life.”  
“I…don’t believe you.”  
“Why would I lie?”  
“I don’t know.”  
After a moment, Sam said:  
“How could my mother _do_ that to me? She sold me before I was born!”  
“She changed her mind,” Dean pointed out. “And she kept you alive, didn’t she? You gotta understand, Sammy, these guys are like brainwashed. One step up from machines. That’s how the Resistance brings ‘em up, keeps ‘em obedient.”  
Pause.  
“What will happen to me now?” Sam asked.  
“I don’t know,” Dean said. “You’ll – you’ll be okay. It’s not like they’re going to _damage_ you or anything. You’re valuable.”  
“How am I?” Sam asked miserably. “I can’t even control it.”  
At that moment, the door opened suddenly, and they both stopped talking. Two men in Elite Guard uniform entered.  
“T506IU,” said Dean pleasantly. “How’s life?”  
“You can go,” said the newcomer to Dean. “Report to Province HQ for debriefing. The Novice is to report to room 2.16 at 07:00 hours.”  
“I’m on one-to-one guard,” said Dean.  
“Not anymore,” T506IU shrugged. “You’ve been taken off the case.” The second Guard moved up behind him a little, both facing Dean. “Chief said something about you earning a leave.”  
“I’m not due leave.”  
“Guess he figures you deserve it, after this gig,” he nodded to Sam. The Guards stared at Dean. He stared back at them. Sam had thought it was impossible for Dean to be intimidated by anyone, but these Guards had exactly the same training as he did, and there were two of them.  
“I’ll be back,” Dean said to Sam finally. “I won’t take leave. Just let me debrief and I’ll be back.”  
Deep fear settled into Sam’s stomach. He wanted to tell Dean not to go, not to leave him – but that was ridiculous. Guard or not, Dean was one person. What was he going to do?  
“What’s going to happen to me?” Sam tried asking the new Guards. They ignored him as though he hadn’t spoken. One took up a post by the door and the other set his things down on the bunk. Sam drew his knees up to his chest and turned to face the wall, feeling Dean’s eyes on his back until the moment he left.

_* * *_

Apparently they didn’t intend to starve him: dinner was chicken breast, potatoes and gravy, and greenhouse peas, served in a compartmentalized tray instead of a plate like at College. Sam ate mechanically. The Guards ignored him. Afterwards he prayed – by rote, he had nothing personal in him. He wished for a rosary, or something to do with his hands. He read Psalms, but they didn’t move him.  
He took a shower for something to do, and when he emerged in just a towel, a set of plain white pyjamas had been laid out for him on the bed.  
“What time is it?” he asked one of the Guards.  
“21:30.” It was the first time they’d acknowledged him. Having nothing else to do, Sam lay on his bunk and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. At some point, the lights dimmed, nowhere near enough to be comfortable, and he lay in an anxious half-doze for most of the night, turning restlessly, one eye on the Guards. They never lay down, never talked, except for a few low murmurs to each other.  
He wondered what Dean was doing.  
Sam must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knew, the lights came on brightly again and a Guard said,  
“Wake up.”  
Sam sat up abruptly, muscles sore and eyes gritty, more tired than when he’d lain down to sleep. He yawned.  
“Breakfast’s served.” Another tray: oatmeal, dehydrated fruit. “Is there coffee?” Sam asked hopefully. His Guards shared a glance.  
“You don’t want it,” the one who had spoken with Dean advised, the first real glimpse of humanity Sam had seen from him.  
“I do,” Sam appealed. “I don’t care if it’s terrible. I think I’ll need to be awake for…whatever.”  
“I’ll see what I can do.” The man left the room, and returned a few moments later with a polystyrene cup. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  
It was foul: bitter and grainy with undissolved grounds, and only lukewarm. Sam downed it like medicine, closed his eyes, and waited for the caffeine to hit his system. When he opened his eyes, the Guard was watching him with an expression Sam recognized: wariness.  
“Do you know what they’re going to do to me?” Sam asked.  
“Question you I expect.”  
“Question _me_? I know less than anyone!”  
The Guard didn’t answer, but glanced at the digital watch on his wrist and said, “Time to go.” Both men walked behind Sam through a series of stark, sterile corridors, passing closed doors marked only by number. There were no windows, and fluorescent bar lights ran the center of the ceiling.  
They stopped at a door marked 2.16. The Guards took up position either side. Sam wondered if he should knock, but the Guard who had spoken pressed a series of numbers on the key lock. Sam tried to look, but they blocked him, and the door slid silently open.  
A single chair was set alone in the center of the bare room. A series of vertical electric beams divided the back of the room from the front, giving the impression of bars. On the far side of the bars sat several people - Elder Harvelle and Elder Kubrick were amongst them, with four others Sam didn’t recognize. Two wore white coats with the insignia of the State on the right breast, one Church robes, the last a military uniform. He was a large man with a bald head and bright round eyes that gleamed with fanatical light. An Elite Guard stood to attention on either side of those sitting – Sam recognized the dark-skinned woman from the fateful Conference trip, and the other was a stranger.  
“Sit down, Samuel,” One of the white coats invited him. Sam sat. Then the door swished open behind him again, and his Guards escorted a youngish woman to Sam’s side. She was a white coat too, and she was pulling an IV stand. Without a word, she took Sam’s left wrist and applied a wet cotton bud, then started inserting a needle into a vein near his skin. The needle was connected to a bag of clear liquid.  
“Hey!” Sam yelped, starting to pull his wrist away.  
“Don’t struggle,” said the white coat who had spoken first, in a tone that brooked no argument. “This doesn’t have to be difficult Samuel. We’re just giving you something to help you relax and answer honestly.” Both Guards were behind Sam’s chair now – there was nowhere for him to go. He felt something cold stream up his arm on the inside: goosebumps prickled his neck and shoulders.  
“My name is Dr. Park,” said the white coat. “To my left is Dr. Ellicot, and you know Elders Harvelle and Kubrik. The officer to my right is General R. Q. Zachariah, Head of State Security.  
“Young Samuel,” said Zachariah, smiling. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”  
“Do you know why you’re here?” asked the white coat.  
“No,” Sam said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Anytime someone wants to tell me would be great.”  
“Just answer the questions,” said Zachariah. His tone was mild but brooked no argument. Sam looked to Elder Harvelle, but she was writing on a tablet.  
“How did you know Max Miller was about to commit suicide?” asked the white coat.  
“I dreamed it.”  
“You dreamed it before it happened?”  
“I think – as it was happening.” The stuff was still running up his arm, but he could no longer feel it. Maybe his blood was warming the liquid up. After the initial pinch where the needle had entered, it didn’t hurt at all. “I dreamed it and I knew he was going to, right then. So I told Dean, and we stopped him.”  
“Dean?” A second of the white coats raised an eyebrow.  
“My Guard.”  
“JH76224,” supplied Zachariah. “Good soldier.”  
“Have you ever had other dreams like that?” Elder Harvelle asked.  
Sam paused.  
“Tell the truth,” said Kubrick. Sam wanted to say no, never, it was a one-off fluke and would never happen again, but he felt strange and a little distant, as though he was watching himself speak from outside.  
“Yeah.”  
“Like what?” the white coat leaned forward, pressing his hands together.  
“Like, not that clearly. It was all vague before. But like I’ve dreamed about car crashes, and then there’s been accidents like it on the news. Once a woman who drowned.” His tongue felt too big for his mouth.  
“ _Accidents_ ,” Kubrick sneered. Harvelle shot him a warning look and he glared back in open challenge.  
“How old were you when this first started?” the white coats were scribbling away on their tablets.  
“Uh, as young as I can remember.”  
“In the orphanage?”  
“Yeah.”  
“And why didn’t you tell anyone?”  
Sam didn’t want to answer. He pressed his lips together with effort.  
“Samuel, we would like to keep this cordial. No one here has any interest in seeing you hurt.” The white coat was leaning forward, all earnest and friendly. Sam looked at Kubrick, and a snort escaped him. “But we do need this information. If you make it necessary for us to employ more forceful methods, we will do so.”  
Sam kept his mouth closed tightly. The white coat who had just spoken nodded to their doctor, and she added something to the bag of clear liquid. Sam felt sick – suddenly, violently. He leaned forward and retched but nothing came out. Instead, he blurted,  
“I pretended it wasn’t real! I didn’t wanted people to know I’m…”  
“Know you’re what?” Zachariah was leaning forward, and eager light in his eyes.  
“A freak.”  
“Are you working for the Resistance, Samuel?” asked Zachariah.  
“No!”  
“Is the reason you didn’t tell anyone because you were passing on information?”  
“No!” Sam felt his heartbeat rise, thumping against his ribs, sending the drug pulsing wildly through his body. It wasn’t pain, exactly. Nausea, and a fuzzy feeling. Like the worst sensations of being drunk, intensified. He wanted to reason, to ask why Lugosi would’ve needed to kidnap him if he already worked for the Resistance. The words wouldn’t form properly.  
“Alright,” Elder Harvelle said. “Let’s move on. How did you make the bullet explode, Sam?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Up the serum,” Kubrick said.  
“Not yet,” said a white coat.  
“He’s lying.”  
“I’m not lying.”  
“Has anything like that ever happened before?”  
“No…”  
“What did you feel?”  
“Did you like it?” Kubrick wanted to know.  
“I felt…scared…I mean like I was going to be shot…I don’t wanna die….and I thought it was like everything slowed down for a second. I could see stuff. See the bullet moving. Then it like came up in me.”  
“Came up?”  
“Like adrenalin. Or puke.”  
The woman with the needle actually snorted laughter. She was watching a monitor above his head, which at some point she’d connected to his other wrist.  
“Then it like exploded,” Sam elaborated. The room darkened, and he realized his eyes had started to close. He opened them abruptly.  
“That’s enough for now,” Harvelle said.  
“It’s quite safe, Elder,” said a white coat mildly.  
“Look at him!”  
“There are no permanent effects,” said the white coat firmly. “We’ve tested the serum thoroughly.”  
“But not on…”  
“What is your relationship to JH76224?” said Zachariah Sam.  
“Huh?” said Sam.  
“Dean.”  
“I jus’ told you. He’s my guard.”  
“Is that all?”  
The monitor beeped violently as Sam’s heart rate spiked. They couldn’t know – how could they know? He had never _done_ anything. But if he could predict the future, who knew? There could be mind-readers, telepaths…  
“Feelings aren’t a Sin,” Sam appealed. “Some of us are tempted…God tempts the righteous in different ways…” he was repeating a sermon.  
There was a pause, and he forced himself to look up. His entire audience was silent, just watching him. One of the white coats wrote on his tablet without taking his eyes off Sam.  
“Alright,” said the officer finally. “He can go for now.”  
The woman on Sam’s side nodded and extracted the needles from his arms. This time he didn’t feel it. He didn’t remember much of the walk back to his room, but made it to the toilet in his cell before he puked. That was bad, but afterwards he felt a little better, the sour acid taste in his throat an acceptable substitute for nausea and dizziness. Sam splashed his face with water, drank some, and then dragged himself to his bed to lie down. His new guards watched without comment. 

6.  
Time passed in a blur with a similar pattern. Sam lost track of the days and nights – he slept without a schedule, and sometimes when he woke up there was food for him, so it hadn’t been night. The drugs were bad – he was frequently sick, tired and forgot large chunks of things, but it didn’t seem to be getting any worse, so he didn’t think they were killing him. Whenever he started to feel better, there was another interrogation, with more drugs, and it started again. The white coats and Zachariah were always there – at some point, the Elders disappeared, and Sam felt betrayed by that, that they wouldn’t even watch what they were doing to him. Sometimes it was only questions. Other times, they asked him to use his power, injecting him with this or that to monitor the effects. He’d told them he couldn’t control it a hundred times, but they obviously didn’t believe him. One time he succeeded in causing a door to slam- once an electronic tablet to spontaneously combust. No-one was touching it at the time.  
It wasn’t fair to think that Dean had betrayed him too – it was a secure facility, Dean had been taken off the case, probably sent away somewhere and ordered to keep his mouth shut. There were other possibilities, which Sam tried not to think about, but at some point he couldn’t prevent himself from asking his new guards,  
“Do you think Dean’s dead?”  
“JH76224?” the one who talked answered.  
“Don’t call him that,” Sam was sitting on his bed, back against the headboard, too weary to stand up but not wanting to have this conversation lying down. “He has a name. Do you think he’s dead?”  
The guard shrugged. “It’s possible.”  
“Most expendable of the expendables,” said Sam bitterly, a memory from forever ago.  
“Hardly,” said his guard. “They don’t put down Elite Guards for nothing. But there are a million ways we could die every mission kid. Can never guarantee we’re alive.”  
“Oh.” Sam closed his eyes briefly. “Why did…why did they take him away?” He was aware what that sounded like, plaintive and needy. He didn’t care.  
“None of my business,” said his guard. “Eat your dinner.”  
It wasn’t so bad, it was bearable, he wasn’t dying and they didn’t starve or freeze or deprive him of sleep. He thought they were starting to believe him – there were more questions about his life, less demands that he utilize his powers. Perhaps they’d just give him something to kill the powers, and let him go. Let him go back to being nothing.  
Until it was bad. Until one morning – he knew because of breakfast – they took him to the white room, and the Elders were back. And Elder Murphy was there, on Sam’s side of the forcefield, held at gunpoint by Zachariah and a Guard. Zachariah was still smiling.  
“Sam,” Elder Murphy said, in something like apology. He looked bad – one eye blackened, pale, two days’ worth of stubble around his chin and jaw.  
“What are you doing here?!” Sam gasped. “What is he doing here?” he demanded of the white coats.  
“Do you consider Elder Murphy a friend, Samuel?” asked the one who seemed to be in charge – Dr. Park was an older man with steel grey hair, cropped in a no-nonsense style, with a wiry build.  
“Yes,” Sam said. “Why is he here?”  
“Then stop the bullet,” said the officer, and fired, and Sam tried, he reached down and tried to draw on whatever the hell it was, but perhaps it was the drugs or perhaps he just couldn’t do it, but there was nothing. A hole where the power came from. The top of Elder Murphy’s head exploded. His eyes widened with surprise and then he crumpled.  
Sam gaped.  
“You killed him,” he said like an idiot, and his voice came out tiny and shocked, a child’s voice. There was something wet on his shirt, and he looked down, and it was a chunk of tissue.  
“He was a collaborator,” said the officer, with a sneer of disgust on his face. “Been feeding the Resistance information for years.” He shifted the body a little with his foot. Shattered bone grated.  
“No,” said Sam.  
“Trust me kid,” said the Guard, “He killed a lot of State citizens over the years, as surely as if he’d pulled the trigger.”  
Sam sat down on the floor, more of necessity than choice. He looked beyond the forcefield, and saw that Elder Harvelle was hiding her face in her hands, her long brown hair falling in curtains around her face. Elder Kubrick smiled in satisfaction.  
“Amen,” Kubrick said.  
“That will do for today,” said Dr. Park, and requested, “Nurse?”  
The woman with the needles inserted something into Sam’s arms again, and everything went quiet. 

_* * *  
That was when it changed. Looking back, that was when it went from uncomfortable to torment:  
“Come on Sammy. We know what they’re like. How they brainwash you. But God forgives…He has a plan.” Zachariah was seated across from him, alone in a room, small and dim and unlike the sanitary clinics in every way. There were stone walls, and exposed wiring in the alcoves. Occasionally a piece sparked, leaving Sam with the worry of the whole room exploding – he still didn’t want to die. He was strapped to a chair – this one just metal, cold and without padding, and the air was frigid. They’d brought him here the previous night – or the night before that? – left him to pray, to repent.  
 _‘Dear God,’ _he’d thought.  
Blank.  
 _‘Let them see that I’m not dangerous…..  
…..that I don’t want to be dangerous.  
That I’ve done nothing.  
Nothing on purpose.  
“Thou hast laid me in the lowest pit, in darkness, in the deeps.  
Thy wrath lieth hard upon me, and thou hast afflicted me with all thy waves. Selah.  
Thou hast put away mine acquaintance far from me; thou hast made me an abomination unto them: I am shut up, and I cannot come forth_.”’  
Of course the next psalm, 89, began in praise of God’s steadfastness. Sam had been taught that the last two psalms of the third book were a prayer – despondency followed by renewed hope.  
 _“‘Lover and friend hast thou put far from me, and mine acquaintance into darkness.’”  
He waited for the hope part to come to his memory.  
“I’ve had doubts,” Zachariah confided, friendly. “We all have. But we deal with those doubts. We recognize them for temptations of Evil. We don’t all betray our family Samuel.” He sat back in his comfortable chair. The lights gleamed on the top of his bald head, and his lips curved upward slightly, bright eyes sympathetic but firm. His fingers went to the badge on his chest, touched the emblem of Church and State softly. “The Church and State raised you. Gave you the best education. What would make you turn against us like that?” Soft now. A wounded father.  
“I didn’t.” Sam’s voice was raspy with dehydration.  
“THEN WHY WAS THE CONSPIRITOR DEFENDING YOU?” He roared it. Stood up, bearing down on Sam, and Sam flinched back, metal pressing into his spine and the back his legs.  
“He was my friend,” Sam whispered. “My teacher.”  
“LIAR!” Sam saw stars, and pain blossomed across his face – he’d been slapped, he realised belatedly. Backhanded across the mouth. For a second he only saw black, and when it cleared, Zachariah was back in his seat again. Sam leaned forward and spat blood.  
“Terrorists do not have friends,” Zachariah said calmly. “They have allies. _Comrades_ ,” he sneered.  
Sam had no answer.  
“I could lie,” he said bitterly. “Would that make you happy?”  
“I will be happy when you repent, my son,” said Zachariah, and pressed a button.____

____* * *_ _ _ _

____Electrocution is always fatal, Dean had told him once. People just use the word wrong. You can take an electric _shock_ and survive – but ‘electrocuted’ means ‘killed by electricity’. Like ‘drowned’. Sam had not been electrocuted, but in the past few days, had learned first-hand that it was possible to receive fairly frequent electric shocks to the hands, arms and feet, without risking long term damage greater than scarring. After they’d tortured him, they doused him with antiseptic and slapped bandages on him.  
“We want you to work for us,” said the white coats, “You are incredibly valuable.”  
“We want you to talk,” said the soldiers, “You’re lying.”  
“We want you to repent,” said the Churchmen, and everyone else, “God loves you.”  
But in the deepest, most secret, darkest corner of his mind, Sam wondered if he still loved God.  
His best memories were of Dean. That was a surprise. Amongst other side effects, the drugs killed sexual arousal. Sam remembered Dean’s physical beauty, truly green eyes, fit hard body, generous mouth quirked in an ironic smile – but he could only appreciate it objectively now, without it doing things to his body. He missed Dean as a person, a companion. His conversation and just – presence. You got so used to it, when someone was always around like that. Like part of your body, or a sense. Sure, he thought wistfully of College, of Jess and Ash, even the orphanage when the drugs allowed him to remember that far back, but he only dreamed about Dean. He hoped that didn’t mean Dean was dead, that he saw not only death visions, but the dead too.  
“Hi again,” he said to dream-Dean. “You look worried.”  
“Sammy it’s me,” said dream-Dean urgently. “Come on, quick, we have to go.”  
“Can’t go anywhere,” Sam said listlessly. “Want to lie down? I can’t – even – I know you’re not sick in the head like me, but I can’t even do anything, cos of the drugs, so if you wanna like lie down I might sleep until morning and that would be nice.”  
“Holy shit,” dream-Dean pressed a hand to his mouth urgently, a gesture that meant he was stressed and thinking fast. Odd – dream-Dean was usually pretty happy. “Sam it’s not a dream. I’m here, okay? I’m gonna get you out of here. We have to move fast.” He stripped the blanket off Sam, and Sam scowled, trying to grab it back, then hissed at the pain from his burnt hands.  
“Fuck,” dream-Dean swore. “Bastards. Can you-?” He seemed to be looking for what part of Sam to grab onto, to pull him up without hurting him. He settled for sort of half-pushing him by the shoulder, steadying him from the front with his other hand.  
“You look like shit,” Sam observed.  
“Look who’s talking,” snorted dream-Dean. “Believe it or not, Sammy, I ain’t been on vacation. You have to work with me here.”  
“You’re strong, for a dream,” Sam observed.  
“Okay,” dream-Dean blew out his breath, squatted down in front of Sam. “Listen to me. I am not a dream. This is real. I’ve come to get you out of here. The guards outside your door are dead, but if they don’t report every fifteen minutes, the guy downstairs is gonna trigger an alarm which will bring the whole goddam military down on us. We have ten minutes left.”  
Sam blinked.  
“You understand me?”  
“Okay,” Sam said. If dream-Dean wanted to get out of here, he could go with that. It might be nice to dream something else for a change. He got up, dream-Dean steadying him, and made to pick up his day clothes.  
“No time for that,” dream-Dean said. “I got provisions.” Moving quickly, he hustled Sam out of the room and past the bodies of the two guards that had been at his door. Both were unmarked, save for a small round piercing in the side of each of their necks. Dream-Dean manoeuvred Sam towards a window at the end of the hall, tapped a combination lock, and the window opened.  
“Ash disabled the security camera,” Dean said. “You gonna manage this?”  
Sam regarded the climbing wire that led down to sleek black vehicle.  
“Okay,” he said again.  
“I’ll go first,” Dream-Dean said, and that was a good decision, because when Sam stumbled near the end of the wire dream-Dean was able to catch him. He said,  
“Get in the trunk.”  
“The…trunk?”  
Dream-Dean opened the trunk in question, helped Sam awkwardly fold his long limbs inside, every movement sending pain searing through his half-healed burns. Inside it was black-dark, hard to breathe. Sam felt the car move, and pause, as Dean exchanged words with the gate guard – the swish of the gates beginning to open -  
Then the siren started.  
“FREEZE!” an unfamiliar voice ordered, “VACATE THE VEHICLE!”  
Tires squealed and Sam was jerked abruptly left as Dean floored the gas. He hit the side of the trunk hard. They were surging forward, gunfire behind them, something _pinged_ off the back of the car but below the trunk. There was an awful, grating screech as metal tore metal – Dean must be forcing the car through the half open gates, something released, and they went faster. Sirens screamed and he had no way of knowing who was behind them, how many there were, how close. Sam closed his eyes, shutting out the thin band of light from the opening of the trunk, and reminded himself that you couldn’t die in a dream – but apparently you feel pain in a dream, the pain of fire, perhaps, or bullets, or perhaps he was dying in real life, the drugs were finally killing him, and this was the way his subconscious chose to experience it. He hoped it would end soon.  
An un-judgeable period of time - there was gunfire from their car, too, and an almighty BANG from behind them, and the acrid stench of smoke – and more pinging and the smell of burning rubber. Sam’s first understanding that something had changed came with the absence of swerving. They were driving in a straighter line now, still at high speed. He listened, and the only sounds were the whine of the straining engine and the vibrations of the tyres.  
He hadn’t prayed.  
Another un-judgeable period of time.  
The car slowed, and stopped.  
Sam froze, unbreathing. The streak of light from the trunk’s opening widened, gaped, blinding, and as his vision cleared he fully expected Zachariah’s round eyes to be staring balefully down on him. Instead, Dean’s shadow fell over him and Sam looked up into his face.  
“We should ditch the car,” Dean said. “This is as good a place as any.”  
“What – where are we?”  
Dean stood back, gestured around him expansively at the dry dirt road. A line of scrubby trees petered out towards the horizon. The ground was dull, the flat colour of mud, and the sky pale. It looked like dawn.  
“Off the grid,” Dean replied. “Well, more or less.”  
He offered a hand and helped Sam climb stiffly out of the trunk. Sam had to lean on the car for a moment as blood returned to his limbs, gritting his teeth through the horrible sensation. Dean looked – older. More lines around his mouth, eyes duller. Sam had no idea how much time had passed since they’d last been together, but it didn’t seem like enough for those changes.  
“This is a more effective way though. To get off the grid I mean. Before you do anything else…” Dean offered Sam a small, clean knife. Sam looked at it.  
“Take your chip out,” Dean clarified.  
“Out…of my arm?”  
“Like this,” Dean rolled his sleeve up, and Sam could see two small scars on the inside of his right arm. The first everybody had, where they put the chip into babies, but the second was not as neat and a little bigger. The skin beneath was little lumpy and uneven. Handling the knife quite dextrously with his left hand, Dean made a third incision and grunted and scowled as he moved the blade around a little. Then a silvery chip, no bigger than Sam’s small fingernail, slid from between the edges of skin on a bright swell of blood. It fell to the ground and Dean stood on it, grinding it into the dirt with his boot. Then he drew a bottle from his backpack and poured some of the contents over his arm and the knife. Pink water streamed to the parched dirt and was instantly soaked up. Dean tied off the cut with a piece of cloth and offered the knife to Sam.  
Sam just looked. Dean sighed and gestured for Sam to give him his arm. “Dude, if you weren’t drugged, I would seriously be getting your genius card revoked by now.”  
“Don’t have a card,” Sam mumbled, and offered his arm. He was, he realized as a chill hit his skin, still wearing thin white pyjamas. He could feel the small stones of the dirt through the bottoms of the prison slippers.  
Dean rolled up Sam’s sleeve and considered his skin. The burns were all on the backs of his arms and hands – and feet, he realized with relief, if they’d been on the soles of his feet he might not have made it this far. The inside of his forearm was surprisingly pale in the dawn light. Dean gripped his wrist with his left hand with the right he raised the knife –  
“Don’t move once I start or I might hit a vein,” he warned, and slid the tip of the blade into Sam’s skin. The pain was small and bright.  
“This is real!” Sam exclaimed, suddenly sure.  
“Sure is,” Dean said, eyes on his work. The knife moved under Sam’s skin, probing deeper, and he felt _it_ : his identichip, as unacknowledged as a body part in sleep, suddenly a foreign object. It slid out, and he saw it, the sum of himself, his official and legible existence. Dean crushed it under his boot. Sam poured the alcohol over his own arm and Dean tied the cut off.  
“There,” Dean dusted off his hands with the satisfaction of a job well done. “Welcome to the jungle.”  
“That was – easy,” Sam said.  
“They can’t keep you if you’re not willing. Not really. If they found a way to put it inside your brain, people could still kill themselves.”  
“You’ve done it before.”  
“Killed myself?” Dean grinned.  
“Taken your chip out.”  
“Yeah. Once.” He opened the back door of the car and retrieved two heavy-looking backpacks and a set of clothes. Similar to his own, the clothes were dark and nondescript – trousers, a t-shirt, and a jacket. To these he added a pair of boots.  
“Get changed.”  
When they had been room-mates, Dean had changed in front of him all the time. Sam used to change in the bathroom. It all seemed rather ridiculous now. Allowing a person to cut you – or perhaps the whole rescue/getaway scenario – apparently went a long way to removing one’s inhibitions. The trousers were a little baggy around the waist and too short in the leg, and the boots were clearly blister material even with thick socks. Sam had never felt happier to be dressed. He moved to take one of the backpacks, but Dean shook his head.  
“Walk off whatever they gave you first.” He handed Sam a water bottle. “Keep drinking.” Dean spared a last, regretful look at the car, patted its top almost in affection. Then he turned and started to walk in the direction of the treeline. Sam followed._ _ _ _

____7._ _ _ _

____“We’ll camp tonight,” Dean said. “Tomorrow we’ll hit up a place I know. Didn’t wanna leave the car near anyone we could get in trouble.”  
“Okay.” Sam said. He was beyond curiosity about this ‘place’, just placing one foot in front of the other obedient as a child. They had passed through the sparse trees and out the other side, and the sun was beginning to climb, pale yellow-orange stretching the shadows of the rocks behind them. Sam had never seen so much open space, so much land without buildings and people.  
“Are we still in the State?” he asked.  
“Borderlands.”  
“Oh.” How surreal. Sam was starting to feel better as the water flushed the last round of drugs from his system. In no uncertain terms, Dean had told him,  
“When you have to piss, say so. All the better for getting rid of it.”  
Sam wondered how Dean knew so much about the mechanics of these things, and then wondered if he really wanted to know.  
“Thank you,” he said eventually.  
Dean shrugged.  
“You risked your life for me.”  
“Don’t flatter yourself too much. I was a prisoner too, you know.”  
“Oh.”  
“Figured if I was busting out, I might as well take you with me.”  
Sam snorted at the ridiculous posturing. “Just steal a car, swing by the precinct jail, kill two guards, fake your way through security, and indulge in a little car-chase-slash-fire-fight?”  
“All in a day’s work,” Dean grinned. When he smiled some of the age fell away from his face. “So…how’re you doing?”  
“Better,” Sam said honestly. He felt better than he had in a long time. The boots hurt, and he still felt numb, disconnected, but stronger and no longer sick or dizzy. It was good to walk: he’d been too long in the same small set of rooms. He allowed things to sink in at their own pace – he was out, he was a fugitive, a non-person without an identity chip. He was with Dean. God could not tolerate – the State could not tolerate – there would be comeuppance. Vengeance.  
‘What choice did I have?’ he mentally demanded. ‘I was going to die.’  
‘Then you should have died,’ said the voice of obedience. ‘Your duty is to God and the State’.  
He felt weary, suddenly, absolutely heavy, and he said,  
“Still tired though. Can we stop soon?”  
“Sure. We ain’t on a schedule. I’ll look out for a place.”  
This ‘place’ turned out to be a shallow cave of sorts, part of a rock formation, low enough to the ground that Sam had to sit to be comfortable. Dean unpacked two sleeping bags, printed with the army insignia and serial numbers, which folded away to impossibly thin flat packages. All his movements were sure to the point of being almost automatic.  
“I would have died there,” Sam said out loud. Gratitude was ridiculous and inadequate, so he just lay down on his sleeping back and stated it.  
“Doubt it. Unless Captain Smiley got carried away or something. More likely you’d justa been there forever. You hungry?”  
Sam considered it. “Yeah,” he said. Dean offered him a ration pack and more water.  
“Doesn’t look much, but it kinda expands in your stomach or some shit. Fills you up and shuts you up,” he patted his belly.  
“Thanks.” Sam didn’t thank God before eating. It seemed a long time since he’d done so. He ate quickly and with precision. “So uh...” Dean had busied himself disassembling a gun and was cleaning the parts. He didn’t look up when Sam addressed him: “What will we do? I mean, you ran away before, right? What did you do then?”  
“Moved around. It’s the best way. There are places, on the Borderlands…”  
“Ghost towns,” a shiver ran up Sam’s spine as he said it. Ghosts – non-persons, without ID chips – were a horror story told to small children who threatened to run away. Ghosts lived without lives, roles or business, outside of the State of God. Who knew what they did, how they ate, what they thought, flitting about their shadowy existence. Once or twice, he’d heard rumours of Ghosts saved, redeemed and made persons by the Blood of Christ – more often than not they were just beasts. Creatures without a soul couldn’t be redeemed – it was safest to shoot on sight. When Ghosts died, they became dust.  
“It ain’t that bad. Some of them are nasty fuckers, but no worse than sergeants I’ve served under. And some are okay.”  
“ _Okay?_ They’re not even _people_.”  
“Neither are we,” Dean reminded him archly, gesturing to Sam’s bandaged arm.  
“Yeah but…” There wasn’t really an answer to that.  
“Why don’t you take a nap?” Dean said, almost kindly, but Sam couldn’t help feeling a bit like a child told to be quiet and go to bed. But it seemed like a good idea, so he took the boots off and attempted to get comfortable. The sleeping bag was made of some material that absorbed body heat and reflected it back to you. He was sleepy.  
The residue of the drugs in his system still disconnected mind and body, but his last glimpse before his eyes closed was his rescuer’s profile lit by the pale light from the opening of the cave, an impression of abstract beauty._ _ _ _

____* * *_ _ _ _

____ _ _

____When he woke, it was evening, and Sam was surprised how much time he’d lost. He was further surprised when he looked down to discover that the burns on his hands and the top of his feet had been redressed.  
“You were out like a light,” Dean said without looking at Sam. He was rolling up his own sleeping bag. “Don’t want them getting infected. Do they feel okay?”  
“Yeah,” Sam said, and lifted the dressing on the back of his left hand to peer at the blistered skin. It was sore but dry, no wet crust of impending infection. “Thanks – again. Um – what, what did they do to you?”  
“Nothing much. Locked me up and asked me about you. Ran a few weird tests, gave me a few drugs, but pretty soon they lost interest. Not like…”  
“Not like?”  
“When I ran away before, I wasn’t valuable property.”  
Sam’s mind flashed back to the cells, all those months ago.  
“They tortured you then.”  
“No – torture is a deliberate process of punishment or information extraction. I ran away the first time coz I hated being a grunt, so I did shit – stole, smoked pot, whatever – then I got beat on for it. Nothing formal enough to be called torture. But the top dogs were impressed enough by how far I’d gotten to send me to Hell.”  
“Hell?”  
“Training camp for Elite Guard.”  
“That’s … awful.”  
“Nah. I liked it. The training, that is, not the beatings. Guards get to use their brains. Different story to being a grunt, for sure. Plus, there are benefits.” He grinned secretly to himself. “Overall I’d say what they did to you is worse.”  
“It’s.” Sam shook his head. “How can they – how can _God_ \- it’s illegal. The State exists to do God’s will and…”  
“No, the State is God. And God is always right.”  
“The State is the body of God on earth.”  
“What’s the difference?”  
“Well that’s, that’s a big theological issue, there are different views-”  
“Amazing what a little theology can accomplish.” Dean didn’t bother to hide the scorn from his voice. He finished zipping up his bag and said, “Ready?”  
“I can’t believe they would use me.” Sam felt suddenly very sorry for himself. “They killed Elder Murphy. They said he was a collaborator…”  
“Uh, Sam? Can you have your personal crisis later? I mean it’s gotta suck, having your whole belief system broken and all, but it’s just that we need to keep moving and it’s easier to disappear once we hit the Ghost towns.”  
Sam got up and stuffed his own sleeping bag away. “Okay.”  
“For what it’s worth, if he was a collaborator, he would’ve sold you out eventually. And being handed over to the Resistance would make whatever the State does look like a walk in the park.”  
“How do you know?”  
“Huh?”  
“How do you know what the Resistance do? Have you ever been captured by them?”  
“No.”  
“So…?”  
“Trust me,” Dean said shortly. “I’ve seen enough.”  
The conversation was clearly over, so Sam picked up his bag, and they started to walk again, not stopping this time until it was near morning._ _ _ _

____* * *_ _ _ _

____Ghosts were quiet by day. That explained why the ramshackle town seemed deserted from the dirt road. A series of – dwellings – brick, wood and tin, in various states of repair, lined either side of the central street, leading off to a few more streets behind them. What appeared to be a washing line was strung between two houses. No lights shone anywhere. A sign at the end of the dirt road read,  
WELCOME TO NOWHERE.  
It was painted by hand, in a dark green colour. Underneath a second hand had scrawled  
Population: 0.  
Sam had never seen anything so dirty in his life. So dull or mean.  
“I can’t believe people live like this,” he whispered. “Well, not people.”  
“Might want to keep that to yourself till they get to know you,” Dean said, and clapped him on the back. “I’m good with a couple of the locals, got a few favours to call in, but we’re still kind of counting on Ghost goodwill here.” As he passed the sign, a mangy dog which had been camouflaged by the grey stone wall behind it sprang up and barked in alarm. The noise was insistent and piercing, and Sam nearly jumped out of his skin, having never been so close to a dog before. Dean stood still and held out a hand, and the dog came over and sniffed him. It raised rheumy eyes to his face and growled, more posture than threat, then slunk back the wall and lay down again.  
Sam gaped. “How did you do that?”  
Dean didn’t answer but gestured for Sam to follow him. Their boots crunched loud and intrusive on the path. Sam felt eyes on him, turned, saw a curtain made from a dirty sheet fall shut in one of the houses. Dean strode up to one of the larger buildings, all confidence on the outside outside, but Sam now knew him well enough to catch the flicker of uncertainty in his features. An old brass door handle protruded weirdly from the door, looking newer than the wood. Dean knocked.  
Several seconds passed.  
“Should we-?” Sam asked.  
“Shh.”  
Sam shut his mouth, affronted. He had no time for further comment, though – at that moment, the heavy creak of metal sliding on metal could be heard from behind the door, then two loud clicks and a clunking noise. Very slowly, the door opened a crack. Sam caught the flash of an eye in the gap.  
Dean actually cleared his throat, an embarrassed affectation.  
“Wait,” a female voice said, and the door closed again, only to open properly a second later. And Sam saw his first Ghost.  
She looked like – well, like a young woman, in her early twenties perhaps, but weighed down beyond her years. Her intelligent dark eyes had a wary cast to them, though she nodded to Dean as one would a friendly acquaintance. Her dirty-blonde hair was pulled back in a tight knot; she wore a shabby jumper and faded jeans. Her skin was pale, her mouth downturned, nose and face a little too long to be called pretty. In her right hand she held an old hunting rifle, muzzle pointing up.  
“Jo,” said Dean.  
“Dean. Still alive.”  
“Getting by, getting by. You look-”  
She cut him off with a flat stare. “You pickin’ up passengers now?”  
“This is Sam.” Dean gestured the bandage on Sam’s right arm, now dirty and unravelling. “He’s de-chipped. Me, too.”  
“You, I suppose I should invite in. My father’s dead, incidentally.”  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Yeah. I remember my family’s debts, don’t worry. Him, however…” she raised her eyebrows at Sam.  
“We’re kind of a package deal these days. Won’t put you out for long. Just lookin for a place for a couple nights, till the first search drops off. Then we’ll move on.”  
The Ghost appeared to consider. Then,  
“Alright,” she said, and moved so she wasn’t blocking the doorway. “Got the space. There’s water and piss-poor coffee grounds.”  
“Jo, you’re an angel,” Dean rhapsodized, and she snorted. As they stepped into the dim hall, something scurried just out of Sam’s line of sight and disappeared around a corner.  
“Justin!” the Ghost shouted. Then sighed, “Kids,” and apparently lost interest.  
“Is he-?” Dean’s eyes widened for a second, almost in alarm.  
“He’s not _mine_ , you douche. Parents killed at the same time my father was. There’s a few others around here...” she glanced about absently.  
“Resistance?”  
“Dunno…bunch of us went on a trade run, caught some of the fallout from a cluster bomb.”  
The Ghost led them into a kitchen, surprisingly large, with stone walls and a flagstone floor. In place of glass there was hardboard in all but one of the windows. The only light came from that small hole, and a fire: two of the flagstones had been removed, and something burned in the dirt, leaving the air smoky despite the gap. A gas stove sat in one corner, looking unused for years, and a long wooden table took up the middle of the room. A couple of little Ghosts were digging in a wooden barrel by the far wall: a girl of about ten and a smaller boy. When they entered, the Ghost-children looked up – they were pale and scrawny, skin marred by soot and dirt, and the girl wore trousers that ended somewhere around her mid-calves.  
“Who are _they ___?” she asked boldly, and the boy, still a toddler really, slipped behind her and clung to her jumper.  
“Visitors,” Jo said.  
“Is that Tori?” Dean asked, and the girl’s mouth fell open in surprise. Jo nodded.  
“Hey Tori, you got tall.” He waved, and the girl’s brown eyes narrowed suspiciously.  
“He was here before,” Jo told her. “You were little, you don’t remember. Get some water and put it on the fire.”  
Still scowling, the girl picked the toddler up and settled him on her hip where he looked far too big for her to carry, but hid his face in her shoulder anyway. She swept out of the room with an air of put-upon dignity, and Sam realized there were no taps. Sam watched Dean watch her go with a surprising expression of indulgence.  
“So I’m the one picking up strays?” Dean raised his eyebrows to Jo. “Seems like you’re running a regular orphanage here.”  
“Running would be an overstatement,” the Ghost returned. Then she appeared to notice that Sam hadn’t stopped staring at her. “What?” she said.  
“I’m sorry,” Sam stammered. “It’s just that I never – I never met a – a-”  
“A Ghost?”  
“Right.”  
“Well you have now,” she shrugged. “Sorry for the disappointment.”  
“It’s not – I mean, just – where do you come from?”  
“I was born here. Same as most in this town. There’s a few still alive that remember the old settlement.”  
“No I don’t mean you – you personally – I mean, Ghosts.”  
Jo and Dean exchanged a droll look, and the obvious rapport between them caused something uncomfortably like jealousy to spark in Sam’s stomach. _‘Two of a kind’_ , he thought.  
“Well Sammy,” said Dean carefully, “When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much-…”  
Jo laughed. It was an abrupt, full-bodied sound that transformed her whole face – she threw her head back, and her eyes lit up, her downturned mouth became animated. Sam recalled the shocked way Dean had asked if the first kid was Jo’s child, and his brain filled with unwelcome images of the two of them, vague notions he had from stories and smuggled movies, of furtive glimpses of other students at illicit parties. Oh. And that was – anger.  
At that moment, the girl Tori returned with a pail of water over one arm and the other still holding the toddler to her. She swept officiously past the adults and retrieved a small wire structure from a cupboard. It had three legs attached to a sort of base, and when she set it over the fire, the pail fit on top to start boiling.  
“So, what’s your story?” Jo asked Sam.  
“I, uh, I was a student,” Sam said. “At Central College.”  
She looked at him blankly.  
“It’s a State School,” Dean supplied. “Pretty big deal.”  
“And well, I got…kicked out. For uh, smoking pot.”  
“You don’t look like a stoner.”  
“I kicked the habit.”  
Jo smirked. “Fine, keep your secrets. He’s not dangerous?” she addressed Dean.  
“No,” said Dean with confidence. Sam wished he could be so sure. They made a few minutes of awkward conversation, Dean inquiring after certain Ghosts and Jo saying, “Dead”, or “Still around, got a little gig forging metal on the East side, when she can find it.” Eventually Tori announced, “Done. I ain’t making the coffee.” And Jo got up and took a small bag from a cupboard, sharing a few coffee grounds between tin cups. Tori took a seat at the table and bounced the toddler ostentatiously on her knee.  
“Is that your brother?” Dean asked.  
“Uh huh,” she said. They were similar: the same clever brown eyes, olive skin and head of dark, tangled curls. “I’m lookin after ‘im.”  
“I can see that. What’s his name?”  
“He ain’t got one. Our Mom died before she thought of one.”  
“Oh…well how do you know what to call him?”  
Tori gave Dean a pitying look, as though he was clearly a little slow: “We call him the baby.”  
Jo brought coffee, fried flat bread, and some root vegetables roughly chopped. Sam was starving and ate with surprising pleasure. As they finished, Dean asked if someone called Matt was still running a bar:  
“No, that shut down. He got sick. There’s a new place a couple of streets over,” she gestured vaguely.  
“Awesome,” Dean said.  
“Don’t make any trouble,” Jo glared. Dean raised his eyebrows innocently. They thanked Jo and left the table, spent most of that afternoon in the room Jo allotted them – again, spacious but bare. There was no heat, and Fall was definitely in the air now, so they hunkered down in the sleeping bags out of pure practicality.  
“They’re…nice,” Sam said.  
“You were expecting the boogeyman?”  
“No…I was expecting them to be…”  
“Different somehow. Like non-people. They’re just people who aren’t citizens of the State or Resistance terrorists either.”  
“But like – how does that happen? How can a person be neither a citizen nor a terrorist?”  
Dean shrugged. “It’s a big country.”  
Sam closed his eyes. It was only the middle of the afternoon, but he somehow felt impossibly tired already.  
“We’ll stay here a day or so to rest up. Tomorrow night, we’ll go across to the bar, play some cards, make a little money,” Dean said. “First I pretend you’re beating me, then I offer to play some chump on the pretence of making my money back. He thinks I’m crap, so he agrees, then I beat him. It’s a tried and true method, and we can’t stay here long. We need at least a little cash to keep moving.”  
“Will we be on the run forever?” Sam said.  
“Until they find us.”  
Sam sat up.  
“I ain’t gonna sugarcoat it Sammy. They will find us. Sooner or later. State can’t afford to let you get away.”  
“You damned yourself by coming for me.”  
Dean snorted. “Christ, you’re a drama queen. Everyone’s gotta go sometime. How many Guards you think see old age?”  
Sam lay back and stared at the ceiling.  
“But now we’ll be on the run for the rest of our lives.”  
“Think of it like a road trip.”  
“Do you ever stop that?”  
“Stop what?”  
“The irony. The smart mouth. I mean, are you actually capable of sincerity at all, or is the mask so ingrained it’s become all you are now?”  
Dean scowled and appeared to actually consider it. “What do you want? A journal full of secret poetry? All I ever been is a grunt, a Guard and a criminal. I already told you my parents died when I was a kid, got no family. That’s it, Sam.”  
There was a long pause. They both lay on their backs and looked at the ceiling. Then Dean said,  
“I had a little brother.”  
“Really? Where is he?”  
“Dead. Died the same night as my parents, aged six months.”  
“Oh my God. How did you – if you don’t mind me asking, how did you …?”  
“Get out? Someone called the cops I guess. Don’t remember so well. Some guys in uniform showed up, carried me out. I was just a little kid. I remember the house from outside all – lit up like that. The heat. They couldn’t save anybody else. Next thing I remember is the orphanage.”  
Sam didn’t know what to say.  
“Funny thing,” Dean said almost lightly, fingers tracing a pattern on his sleeping bag. “He had the same name as you.”  
“Who?”  
“My little brother, the one who died. His name was Sammy.”_ _ _ _

_____ _ _ _

_____8._ _ _ _ _

_____After that, his feelings towards Dean seemed even more like a betrayal. Dean clearly saw himself as Sam’s fortuitous protector, as though fate had taken one brother away and dropped another one on him. He saw Sam as a kid: someone to be looked after and provided for, a responsibility. Dean was fond of him, Sam had no doubt of that – he caught it in the odd crooked smile or sideways glance, the occasional hand on the shoulder or lower back. Dean had taken care of Sam during the residue of his drug-induced confusion, when Sam had no doubt said all kinds of stupid things he would cringe to remember. But Dean was normal. He didn’t have Sam’s sickness. Sam had seen him flirt casually with Jo and a couple of the other women who came in and out of the main house, all charm and fake chivalry, and his eyes lingered a beat too long as they walked away. A thoroughly different form of interaction than any he offered Sam. And it got worse. You’d think that living with someone in dirty close quarters, seeing them sweat, wipe their nose, wake up with drool dried on their face, hearing them use the bathroom…all the messy functions of the human body—should take the edge off what felt at times like a pull to ideal beauty. Quite the opposite. Sam found his gaze drawn to the angles of Dean’s face, throat, chest, backside. The fact that he was human and annoying and admirable _and_ surreally beautiful was an aphrodisiac – contradictions that shouldn’t be possible. When he could steal the time, Sam escaped to the bathroom that didn’t lock, shoved a chair against the door, and masturbated frantically, biting the back of his left hand to muffle the sounds he made.  
The guilt, afterwards, was more personal than spiritual. After all, God had thrown him to the lions. God had no place for Ghosts in His Kingdom, and some of the Ghosts fed children.  
The first time these thoughts occurred to him in his lucid state, he vomited.  
Hell gaped in his dreams._ _ _ _ _

_____* * *_ _ _ _ _

_____The Bar, as the Ghosts called it, was a stone building two streets from Jo’s place. The proprietor was a Ghost whose age was hard to judge due to his total baldness: his dark skin was smooth, and completely devoid of hair, no stubble and only the faintest trace of eyebrows. Unlike the Ghosts Sam had met so far, this one was a talker. He had started a business brewing moonshine in his basement, he explained, and once that had taken off started bulk-buying the liquor off Ghosts who went on the trade runs and selling it at a markup.  
“Enterprise,” he advised Sam. “If there’s one thing people will buy even in a Ghost town, it’s booze. I’ve cornered the market.”  
“So I see,” Sam said, glancing uneasily around at the crowded basement. Smoke was thick in the air, and the sick smell of various cheap drinks combined. Ghosts were everywhere – on the few tables, sharing the crates, sprawled against walls or wandering around, talking, laughing, cursing. Several sat blank-faced in apparent drunken despair, and a few more had passed out completely, the other patrons just stepping over their bodies. There were all ages, teenagers through to the elderly, and even a few kids perched haphazardly on people’s laps or left to their own devices. A middle-aged woman near Sam at the bar coughed wetly in his direction, and he cringed back.  
“New in town?” said the proprietor.  
“Um, yeah. Just – just passing through.”  
“Seems we got a couple strangers tonight.” The proprietor looked at Dean, who in accordance with the plan had entered separately from Sam and was making a spectacle of himself (or perhaps he just drew attention, Sam thought, _‘perhaps I’m not the only one’_ ). He was drinking, but acting drunker than he was, standing at the center of a small group of Ghosts and telling some outrageous story, complete with obscene hand gestures. They were laughing. ‘ _I can’t believe people live like this_ ’, Sam thought again. And not just existed. Sometimes they laughed.  
“Hey stranger,” Dean sauntered up to Sam, shit-eating grin in place. “You play poker?” He asked loudly enough that anyone in a six-foot radius could hear.  
“Maybe,” Sam recited. “When the stakes are right.”  
“That’s what I like to hear!” Dean clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “A betting man.” They agreed the stakes Dean had instructed: high, he told Sam, but believable. By now a small crowd had gathered and was looking on with interest. Sam played his best – Jake had taught him poker in another life, and he’d played several times at college parties, and Dean made ridiculously bad decisions and smirked and chortled obviously when he held a good hand. Sam finished him in short order.  
“Rematch!” Dean demanded, genuinely flushed, either by the bad lights or the bad alcohol. He was clearly enjoying himself. Sam felt the now-familiar stirring, and for once, didn’t bother to crush it down right away. A couple appeared to be engaged in full intercourse against the wall behind Dean, and okay they were normal, a woman and a man, but it was still outrageously public.  
“Sorry,” Sam said and gathered up his pretend winnings, “I quit while I’m ahead.”  
“Hey buddy, I’ll play you,” a short skinny guy with a scruff of blond beard offered Dean.  
“Roll up, my good man,” Dean bowed elaborately and Sam made way for the stranger. “Any further takers?”  
Two more men and a woman immediately came forward.  
The bartender laughed and said,  
“If you got cash to burn, friend, there’s a stove in the back of the bar that needs kindling.”  
“I have recently come into a substantial inheritance,” Dean said loftily, still managing to sound completely drunk. “I intend to double it before the night is out.”  
“You keep believing that,” snorted the bartender. Sam began to feel slightly nervous. No doubt Dean could handle four civilians if it came down to a fight, but one of the guys had a wicked-looking knife tucked into a sheath at his hip. Sam told himself not to be stupid: Dean never went anywhere unarmed, even if the weapon wasn’t visible, and in any case he could probably take the guy down knife and all without even breaking a sweat.  
That fact _really_ shouldn’t appeal the way it did.  
Dean engineered the game so that he appeared to be losing, piling the stakes higher and higher, then just when Sam was wondering if they’d actually end up having to pay, Dean turned it around and started winning. Furiously. The other players looked on in astonishment and increasing anger as they realized they’d been hustled. Poker was, of course, in part a game of chance, so there was no way to completely control the outcome – but the others were thrown off balance and Dean was in his element, soon raking in pot after pot of ever-increasing winnings.  
“What the hell is this?” demanded knife-guy, who was big for a Ghost and red-faced, with an incongruous thick moustache. “Billy, do we stand for these kinds of things round here now?” He was addressing the bartender, who just widened his eyes and raised his hands, one still clutching a dirty dish-rag.  
“You think you can play us for fools here stranger?” a second man got to his feet. “Think you’re some kind of big-shot?”  
“And I guess you’re in on it too,” said the woman, glaring at Sam through narrowed eyes.  
A few moments later, they were running flat-out through the small streets – the bar patrons, unsurprisingly, had taken the side of their fellow townsfolk, and Sam and Dean were suddenly unwelcome. Dean was laughing, winnings stowed safely in his back pocket, but Sam’s heart was hammering in his chest from fear and exertion.  
“Janie!” Dean pulled up short, suddenly, almost made a U-turn. A girl – no, young woman – with wide blue eyes and prominent collar bones turned abruptly from the steps of a large house. She was dressed, despite the night and weather, in a very short skirt and high heels, a blouse that plunged dramatically between her small breasts. Her skin was spotty.  
“Dean?” she asked disbelievingly.  
“Hi,” he grinned. “Um, you couldn’t help out an old friend…?”  
She assessed the situation, glancing back towards the sounds of pursuit in the distance. “Get inside, quickly,” she said, shortly, unlocked the door with a metal key, and hurried them through a couple of corridors.  
They passed what appeared to be several bedrooms and six closed doors. Paint was peeling off the walls and patches of threadbare carpet remained under their feet. A couple of young people dressed as revealingly as their new host crossed their way, and one door opened as they passed to reveal a boy around Sam’s age showing out an older man. His eyes went to Dean, and a look of recognition spread over his face.  
“Shut up Blake,” said Janie, glaring at the young man with a smug glint in his eye. He opened his mouth to say something, and she cut him off. “You rat me out and I’ll make you sorry.”  
A nasty expression crossed Blake’s face, but all he said was,  
“If Madam hears I ain’t lyin to her.”  
Janie made a rude gesture at him and hurried Sam and Dean on.  
“This place has…” Dean trailed off, obviously changing his mind about what he was going to say. Janie glanced back over her shoulder:  
“Gone downhill? Don’t I know it. Magda died. The new boss doesn’t re-invest in the premises. Or in us,” she snorted.  
“Are you – okay?”  
“I’m not the one on the run from the townsfolk.”  
She unlocked a door. Once his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, Sam did a double take. The bedroom was ratty with faded furnishings, but it was still the most luxurious thing he had seen so far in the Ghost town. A bed was made up with once-white sheets printed with blue flowers, and actual curtains hung drawn in the glass window. The floor was stone, but a small rug was set by the side of the bed, and a table next to it in the shape of a heart.  
A heavy suspicion came over him, and his face must have shown it.  
“Who’s the clergyman?” Janie gave a nod in Sam’s direction as she sat down on the bed. There were no chairs. Then she paused and addressed Sam directly. “You’re not, are you?”  
“No. I’m uh, I’m no-one. Just a friend of Dean’s.”  
“Well do yourself a favour – get a new friend. I see he’s already gotten you in trouble – and me too, no doubt. I’m charging you for tonight,” she told Dean. “If I don’t hand in right at the end of the week she’ll take it out of my allowance.”  
“Not a problem, babe.” Dean flicked through the wad of cash he’d just won at the poker table and handed her several bills. She took them quickly, counted them, and stuffed them into her back pocket. “If you actually _want_ anything you’ll have to pay again. Consider that the room fee. Or if he does,” she nodded to Sam.  
“I don’t,” said Sam quickly.  
“Well, though it pains me to refuse a beautiful woman,” Dean sighed, “I’d like to keep tonight in the profit margin.”  
“Suit yourself,” Janie shrugged. “I’ve got another client in an hour, this room should be free until then. You can hide out if you want – folk around here have short memories, so unless you killed anyone important tonight they’ll have cooled off by then. I’m going to the lounge.”  
“What if someone comes in?” Dean asked.  
“If they don’t recognize you, say you’re the new property,” she retorted. “You’ve got the mouth for it.” And with a last, pointed look in his direction, she slid out of the door in one sinuous movement and headed off down the corridor. Sam heard her exchange words with someone else in irritated tones, and her footsteps faded into the noise from the corridor.  
“Dean,” Sam looked at his hands. The bed was the only place to sit, so he opted for the floor. “This is a. This is a. House of prostitution, isn’t it?”  
He could feel Dean’s eyes on him, but didn’t look up.  
“I never know what’s going to shock you,” Dean said. “Maybe I should just bet on you being scandalized by everything.”  
“I’m not,” Sam said.  
“Yeah you are.”  
“Yeah okay. It’s just. I know, I know I can hardly judge. It’s just…I don’t know. All my life I learned that these things were so wrong, that they were abominable to God. And just. I can’t…”  
He was interrupted by a thud from the next room, and the unmistakeable sounds of sex clear through the thin walls. Oh, God. Sam felt heat rise through his body in mortified arousal, knew that his face would be bright red if he could look in a mirror. He bit his lip. He couldn’t possibly look at Dean. If he did he’d – something. Explode.  
Dean started laughing.  
If there was one response which could have deepened Sam’s embarrassment, that was it. To his horror, he felt hot tears of shame and misery prick at the corner of his eyes, and he spat,  
“It’s not funny.”  
“Come on, it kind of is,” Dean chuckled.  
“How is it?” Sam resisted the temptation to clamp his hands over his ears.  
“It’s just – haven’t you figured out yet, Sammy, that all God – the State, whatever – all it’s done is royally fuck you over? They would have _killed_ you. They still might. Life is short. And brutal. What’s the point in inflicting more misery on yourself by feeling guilty?”  
Sam gaped a little. “You don’t mean that.” The memory of his traitorous thoughts in the cell and after tugged at the edge of his consciousness.  
“Sure I do.”  
“If you believed that you wouldn’t have helped me, you’d have let me die.”  
“But I like you. So if I let you die, I’d have felt bad.”  
Sam narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t possible that Dean was telling the truth, but he was so unreadable sometimes. At least puzzling over it distracted him from the rhythmic noise from next door.  
“Aren’t you scared of Hell?” he asked finally.  
“Already been.”  
“Bullshit,” said Sam angrily. “You know what I mean. The real Hell. Damnation.”  
“You wouldn’t believe me.”  
“Try me,” Sam shrugged, and stood up – the rug was thin, and the wooden floor was starting to hurt his tailbone. He went to the window and looked out into the darkness. There was no sight nor sound of their pursuers, though he was facing the same direction from where they had entered the house.  
“I don’t think there’s such a place. Heaven either. I don’t believe in God.”  
Sam didn’t move. He had known, deep down, that something like that was coming.  
“You’d be surprised how many people don’t. In the State, I mean. A lot of the top army guys, the clergy…or they believe in God like a concept, and they rationalize it enough so it basically means a warrant to make other people do what you want and kill your enemies.” He shrugged. “I think God is a construct of words and ideas and rituals that makes people who know how to use it powerful.”  
Sam felt vaguely ill. He thought he might have to sit down again. He’d long suspected that Dean was a heretic in some vague, ill-defined way, but to have it laid out like that, no material existence to the one thing that had to exist in order for anything else to…Sam, in his darker moments, had been more inclined to believe that God hated him, or had forgotten him. Had cursed him. But not exist…that was too hard. That was…how did anything ever happen? He shook his head.  
“No,” he said.  
“Why would God let his minions torture you? You’ve done nothing wrong, except get born to someone experimenting with Resistance drugs.”  
“Because, because sometimes it’s necessary…I’ve done wrong.” Sam covered his face with his hands. “I should have stayed. They would’ve found the reason I’m like this and put it to God’s uses…”  
“Listen to yourself,” said Dean softly. “You’re so smart, and so…brainwashed.”  
“I could hate Him,” Sam blurted, and literally clapped a hand across his mouth. Memories of pain, burning, drug-induced nausea.  
“Don’t hate what doesn’t exist,” Dean said quietly. “Hate the people who tortured you.” Sam heard him move, like he wanted to come across and touch Sam, maybe put a hand on his shoulder. Sam didn’t think he could bear it right then, and his posture must have said so. At last, the noises from next door stopped. Sam sighed, and breathed out.  
“Do you really think they’ll catch us?” he asked, sounding small.  
Pause.  
“Yeah,” Dean said.  
Silence.  
“In the meantime, I’m hungry. One problem with money is you can’t eat it. Let’s go downstairs and see if the kitchen’s up for a little exchange.”  
‘The kitchen’ was more of a cellar really – the lower floors of the large house were much starker and plainer than the upstairs and the entryway. A large older woman with a mass of frizzy grey hair sat sentinel over the cupboards and storage bins. Dean introduced them as “guests of the establishment” and bought bread and some tough dried meat.  
“You’ll get nothing fresh,” said the woman. “We don’t stretch to that nowadays. Magda’s time we had fruits and veg at the start of the week. Course all that’ll do you no good now she’s just letting anyone in.” She looked Sam and Dean up and down. “This used to be a select establishment.”  
Dean’s charming smile flickered. He wasn’t insulted – Sam knew him well enough to know that Dean was impossible to insult – so that could only mean he was worried about Janie. That ought to have pleased Sam – further evidence Dean wasn’t the self-centred nihilist he professed to be – but instead it fed his new sin of jealousy, and he had never known that emotion could be so – hot. Harsh.  
A scream tore abruptly through the basement room, coming from above them. Without stopping to think, Sam followed Dean as he ran from the basement and up the wooden stairs, following sound’s direction. The same person was still screaming, and they passed ashen faces of workers and clients, frozen and turned towards it – the tumult was coming from wide double doors at the end of the first-floor corridor. They burst through the doors to be greeted by a stomach-turning tableau.  
This was clearly the lounge, or what was left of it. A wide room with a few wooden chairs along either wall and musty curtains in the main window. Three circular tables were set up at one end, with cards and dice scattered haphazardly over them. In the center of the floor, a girl less than twenty lay dead with knife in her throat. Her lifeless eyes stared towards the ceiling and she’d bled long enough that the threadbare carpet was soaked crimson around her. The screamer was the young man Janie had addressed on their way in – apparently he’d discovered the body and was standing and screaming, a woman standing next to him totally white with her hand over her mouth. _ _ _ _ _

_____Dean checked the girl’s pulse, pointlessly – she was clearly completely dead, the knife plunged so deep in her throat that her head moved loosely on broken vertebrae when he touched her. Sam gagged. More people had come in behind them – amongst them Janie, and a middle-aged woman in a full length dark blue dress with her grey hair pulled tight on top of her head.  
“She said he was coming back!” exclaimed Jamie, turning to pull on the sleeve of the middle-aged woman. “She knew he was going to kill her!”  
The woman stared Janie and down and extracted her sleeve with dignity. She glanced around the room, her gaze lighting briefly on Sam and Dean before dismissing them.  
“Clean that up,” she instructed Blake and his friend.  
“But – we should -….,” Sam heard himself say, and then wondered how exactly he’d intended to finish. Call the cops? What cops? Look for the killer? The woman who’d come in with Blake was apparently steeling herself – she forcibly swallowed, then knelt next to Dean on the floor and said to Blake,  
“Get a cloth or something.”  
Less than twenty minutes later, the body and ruined carpet were gone, and Blake and the other woman were on their hands and knees scrubbing bloodstains out of the floorboards. Janie, her face pale and tearstained, sat with Dean on two of the folding chairs. Sam stood awkwardly near the door.  
“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Janie said quietly. “What was anyone gonna do?”  
“Do you want…” Dean hesitated. “I could kill him.”  
“He’ll be long gone,” Janie sighed, weary. “No reason to stick around now she’s dead.”  
And she looked at Sam, whose face must have given him away again. “There’s no justice for Ghosts.”_ _ _ _ _

_____* * *  
They left the Ghost town the next morning, physically if not mentally rested, packs weighed with new supplies of food and their clothes washed in cold water provided by Jo. The boots were starting to hurt less, and Sam was grateful for small mercies.  
A red sun was low in the sky, and scrubland stretched before them. The pall of death at close quarters dissipated more quickly now – Sam hoped it was because he hadn’t known the girl, and he had been close to Elder Murphy – but possibly he was just becoming used to it.  
Dean sure was.  
Sam had broached it once, and Dean had said,  
“Yeah, it sucks,” in a rough voice that brooked no further discussion. Sam tried to remember that all the people Dean had killed had probably had friends too, comrades at least, but he couldn’t make himself believe it. Dean had an uncanny ability to acknowledge horror and move on – by mid-morning he was laughing and teasing Sam again, and in another lifetime, Sam would have found him callous.  
They camped under trees that night. It was still fairly early, but they risked a small fire for the sake of heat and using some of the coffee grounds Jo had pressed on them as a parting gift. They broke dry bread into pieces and ate it with canned soup. Funny how being genuinely hungry made everything taste so good. Sam was narrowing. His mind, which had once been completely absorbed with futures and higher things, with grand narratives of Heaven and justice, could get full in these small spaces, of satisfying hunger and the appreciation of warmth, of the firelight on Dean’s profile as he watched a small creature rustling in the bushes. They sat with their backs to the denser trees and their faces towards the opening. A small nose and pair of black eyes poked cautiously from the leaves.  
“A mouse,” Sam said  
“Rat,” said Dean.  
“Oh. It’s sort of – cute.”  
“Rats are cute. Who said rats aren’t cute?”  
Sam shrugged. Dean broke a little piece of bread and laid it on the ground. He held very still. Sam held very still too, and watched Dean watch the rat – firelight caught his eyes and danced over the planes of his face. His mouth curled in a little smile, a real, private smile of pleasure and satisfaction as the rat scuttled forward, grabbed the bread with its dextrous little paws and stood up on its hind legs to gnaw it. Boldly it regarded Dean with black eyes, swallowed the bread, and then got back down on all fours to scuttle into the undergrowth. Dean laughed.  
That particular laugh Sam would later regard as a catalyst – catalysts provoked a chemical reaction, and it certainly felt like that. Whatever was wrong with Sam came bubbling up to the surface, from the pit of his belly right the way up to his chest, and the only thing he could do was to let it out through his mouth, so he leaned forwards just as Dean was turning to him to see his reaction to the rat, and caught Dean’s mouth with his own and his cheek with the palm of his hand. Dean drew in a quick breath and Sam’s heart plummeted, realizing with dread and horror that he’d just ruined his one chance for survival. Heretic or not, he had now reached the watershed and limit of the perversions Dean could accept in him.  
Except –  
Dean wasn’t shoving him away. He wasn’t exactly responding, and Sam was hyper-aware of every place they were touching, the warm, wet insides of their lips tasting of bad coffee, the rasp of stubble on his cheek, the cooler skin of Dean’s face under his hand, the harder line of his cheekbone. Sam forgot to breathe himself for a moment. Every fibre in his body was taut and humming with and agonizing mixture of arousal and anxiety. He froze, and his nerve deserted him.  
“Sorry!” he blurted, as he fell back hard onto his backside, catching himself with one hand flat in the wet leaves. It was the same hand he had just held against Dean’s cheek, and the loss was incomparable.  
“Um,” Dean said. He blinked a couple of times.  
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, “I won’t do it again. We don’t have to ever talk about it. I won’t do anything, I promise. Let’s just pretend that never happened.” He stood up, and busied himself yanking a waterproof sheet from his backpack.  
“Woah, Sammy, just hang on a minute, um…” Dean rubbed a hand over his face.  
“I’m a freak,” Sam said miserably.  
“Yeah,” Dean said. “But I already knew that.”  
Sam stopped, looked up at him. Dean didn’t look angry. In fact he was – could he be - _smiling_ a little bit?  
“Do you – should I go?” Sam said.  
Dean glanced around wryly as though to say, ‘Where would you go?’ and Sam sagged, sighed in relief.  
“I’m sorry,” he said again.  
“Don’t be sorry. Well I mean, you generally shouldn’t do that without asking first, but I’m not mad.”  
“You’re not?”  
Dean shrugged. “I’m hard to resist, I know.”  
Sam blew out his breath. “But I…” he lowered his voice.  
“Like men sometimes?”  
“I – I think so. Or just you.” He had no idea if that was true or not. Certainly Dean had a more powerful effect on him than anyone he’d ever met, but then so few people had penetrated his consciousness in that way. Dean affected him in a profoundly more physical way than Jess ever had. Dean waited, raised his eyebrows.  
“I just…” Sam said helplessly. “I don’t have the same…I don’t have natural feelings. For women.”  
“Natural?”  
“I mean I can see when a woman’s beautiful. Admire her, even. I liked the way Jess looked. But I don’t – don’t strongly feel the call to reproduce God’s body. It’s complicated.”  
If Dean laughed at him again, Sam would kill him. But Dean appeared to be schooling himself.  
“Who says sex has to be for reproduction?” he asked. “Wait, I know – the Church. But it doesn’t, you know. It can be for pleasure.”  
“No, it’s pleasurable so we’ll want do it, and procreate. Like eating, so we’ll survive.”  
“So what’s kissing for?”  
Sam stopped short. He had honestly never considered that.  
“Um…” he said, and then stopped, because Dean caught his wrist and pulled him forwards, pressed his lips to Sam’s carefully, almost chastely but not quite, parted just slightly with the merest hint of tongue between his teeth. Electricity zipped through Sam’s body from the tip of his tongue where it touched Dean’s to the soles of his feet. His knees hit the dirt.  
“What’s that for?” Dean asked, voice low, pulling back to regard Sam with dark green eyes. “Doesn’t feel very procreative to me, huh? You’re gonna die,” he continued, sliding one hand up and around to the back of Sam’s neck, so warm. “Me too. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but _you will die_. Finally and forever. So you might as well…” he breathed, touched his lips to Sam’s again, “enjoy yourself.”  
Of their own accord, Sam’s hands came up to rest on Dean’s shoulders, touch the lines of his face, and Dean’s came around to the front of his chest, a question in his eyes. Sam nodded. Dean’s hands moved lower, and at the first brush of his nipple through layers of clothing, Sam gasped, thought he might die today after all, never in his life having felt anything comparable. It was the same _sort_ of sensation as when he was alone, but magnified to infinity, and without the terror that someone would walk in and find him, and know. Guilt was there, but it was far away. Some place he couldn’t feel it.  
Of its own accord, his body moved, so that he was no longer kneeling but sitting between Dean’s legs, his thighs on top of Dean’s, the strength and heat of muscles beneath him both safe and frightening. He moved his own hands down to Dean’s chest, to the perfectly sculpted lines he’d admired so many times, and because he had seen Dean shirtless, perhaps, it was suddenly intolerable that either of them be clothed. Tops went first - Sam didn’t even notice the night air – Dean’s hands on his bare skin were hotter than anything imaginable. He pressed his open mouth to the juncture of Sam’s neck and throat, and Sam gasped out loud. Sam tried to do the same – to return the sensations that Dean drew from him – but he was clumsy and stupid. It hurt. But not enough. His hips moved, his body seeking friction of its own accord, and Dean looked up at him with a question in his eyes.  
“Yes,” said Sam, and Dean slid his hand beneath Sam’s waistband, and the feel of _someone else_ touching him _there_ , increasing, decreasing pressure, of being unable to predict when it was going to happen next, and it built far too rapidly, and then -  
— the mess and disgust of his bodily fluids between them.  
“Oh God,” Sam flushed bright red, and Dean said, “It’s okay,” and Sam tried to pull away, but Dean said, “Honestly, it doesn’t matter.” He reached for Sam’s hand, guiding him, and with his other hand pushed his pants down. Sam must have been doing something right, because Dean was ready, and Sam just did what he did to himself, muscle-memory taking over as he stared transfixed at Dean’s face, his changing expressions, the way he raised his eyes, bit his lip. It took longer for Dean – which was hardly saying much – but before it stopped being strange and incredible, his own fluids gushed hot and warm over Sam’s hand.  
It only disgusted him slightly. A thrill of power at having done that raced through his body, and he struggled to regain control of his breathing.  
They lay down, close enough to touch now, and after a moment, Dean said,  
“So you’ve never…?”  
“Nobody but you has ever done anything to me.”  
“Oh.” Dean blew out his breath. “Oh, wow.”  
“It wasn’t just _done_ where I’m from,” Sam said, irrationally defensive. “It was a big – an important thing. Maybe it’s not important to you.”  
“You’re important to me,” Dean said.  
Sam went still and wanted to look at him, but he was afraid that if he did, Dean would stop talking.  
“It’s true that I’ve had sex a lot,” Dean said carefully. “And it hasn’t always been a big deal. But it _can_ be a big deal, Sam, if it’s with someone you really care about. And if we do, at some point, when you’re ready, we always have to use a condom because I think I’m clean but I can’t promise anything.”  
Sam frowned. Have _sex?_ As in, more than they just did? How was that even possible?  
“But I’m glad that - that you trust me, and everything,” Dean said. “That _is_ important.”  
Sam felt his eyelids droop. He still wasn’t particularly sure what Dean was talking about, but endorphins were coasting through his body, calming him, making him want to sleep. Of course part of him was unnerved and guilty, but it felt distant for the moment.  
“You did kind of save my life,” he mumbled. “On more than one occasion.”  
“I guess I did,” Dean smiled, his real smile, and pushed a strand of hair out of Sam’s face. It was the most tender gesture Sam had ever seen him make, to anyone, and his heart swelled with happiness.  
“I love you,” Sam said. “ _Eros, phillia, agape_.”  
“Yeah, that’s the post-cum analgesia.”  
Sam wrinkled his nose at the crude term, but it didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. He hadn’t exactly been expecting a profession of love in return.  
“I do,” he insisted. “You know, when I was in there…I thought about you. I missed you. More than the College, or Jess, or Elder Murphy. I missed _you_.”  
“I missed you too,” said Dean quietly. Then: “It _is_ done, you know. Before marriage. In the State.”  
“Not in Central College.”  
“If you say so.”  
Sam found the energy to glare at him. “Well _I_ kept to the rules.”  
“Don’t I know it,” said Dean lazily, and closed his eyes. Then he opened them. “I’ll take first watch.”  
“No,” said Sam, “I’ll do it.”_ _ _ _ _

_____9._ _ _ _ _

_____One Ghost town was much like another – some rather worse off, some better. The most shocking thing being the sheer number of them and the density of their inhabitants. Sam had always known that there was life outside the State, but he’d imagined Ghosts as lone figures, twos or threes at most, drifting about their pointless existence from border to border. Now it almost seemed that there were more Ghosts than real people in the world.  
They never stayed in the same place for more than a couple of nights. Dean seemed to have acquaintances in all of them, or people who remembered him through the mediation of friends and family. Not all were exactly friendly, but most were willing to help.  
“You’ve done a lot of stuff for a lot of people,” Sam observed. Dean looked at him incredulously:  
“That’s because I’m not _taking_ you to see the ones I fucked over.” He still would not admit to generosity or any motive apart from ‘enlightened self-interest’, and Sam still did not believe him, though he was starting to believe that Dean believed it himself.  
After that night in the copse, Dean didn’t flirt quite so obviously with every woman he met. That pleased Sam. It wasn’t as though he believed he had any _claim_ on Dean – what kind of claim could one have outside the institute of marriage? – but it kept his jealousy at bay, and he appreciated that. They walked closer together now, and Dean gave him more of his conspiratorial smiles. Sam had always been taught, in more or less direct ways, that the flesh was a powerful force, that physical intimacy changed relationships irrevocably. He didn’t feel different about Dean, but now everything he had felt before multiplied in intensity. The thought of Dean with somebody else now made him feel sick and pained. Twice more, at night, they did – what they had done – but never anything further like Dean had alluded they could. What more was there, Sam frequently wondered now, that two people of the same sex could do? He had heard a rumour, once, in the Provinces, but the concept sounded so physically impossible he dismissed it. The last time, completely naked, Dean kissed his chest and then stomach, inching further down his abdomen and glancing up with a curious, sly inflection that stirred something in Sam’s mind…but no. Surely not. That would be – well, disgusting. In any case, Sam still had very little stamina, and he’d finished before his mind could properly form the concept.  
The world outside the State was not all barren wasteland. There were roads – the remains of roads, and of infrastructure. It was following the side of one of these disused highways that Sam had his first intimation their time was up – the illusion of safety in running had come to an end abruptly. A shadow, first. Two shadows. Standing sentry at the heights of a broken building. A man and a woman, each holding a gun, and even from this distance Sam could tell that the weapons were heavier and more powerful than anything belonging to Ghosts. Both were dressed in black, and they stood like soldiers.  
Dean froze in his tracks.  
“Fuck,” he said.  
“Are they…?” Something about them reminded Sam of the Elite Guard – the outfits perhaps, or just the way they held themselves. But they were not armoured like Guards, and though their weapons were trained on Sam and Dean, no sirens were blaring and nothing was swooping in to capture them. They just – waited.  
“Do we run?” Sam changed his question.  
“No point,” Dean said. “They’ve seen us now. And they can overtake us…” he nodded to the lower level of the building. Half out of sight, leading round to the back, a line of dusty armoured vehicles sat parked and idle. Their colour half-blended with the dust.  
“So….?”  
“Keep walking,” Dean shrugged. “If they haven’t shot us by now they’re probably not going to. Got something better, no doubt.” Bitterness was in his voice, and something worse: hopelessness. “Resistance,” he said, in response to Sam’s look: “Terrorists.”  
The figures on their rooftop kept their gazes and aims fixed as Sam and Dean drew closer to the building. There was movement in the shadows – a couple more faces appeared briefly to peer from the windows, then vanished again. Dean walked with his shoulders slumped. Sam’s stomach dropped. For all Dean’s repeated remarks that he couldn’t protect Sam forever, that their number would come up sooner or later, that he was just playing for time, somehow Sam had never really been scared in his presence. Until now.  
As they got closer, they could make out details about the snipers. The man was thin and blonde with a wispy beard, narrow features and squinty eyes. The woman was dark haired, with a prominent nose, a generous mouth, and large dark eyes that glinted with intelligence.  
“That’s close enough,” she said, hoisting her gun a little higher on her shoulder. “Drop all weapons.” Dean dropped one of his guns as a show of good faith. Sam dropped his only gun.  
“We don’t want any trouble,” Dean said. “We’re not State. Just let us pass.”  
“You look pretty State to me,” she looked him up and down: “Guard.”  
“How did you know?”  
“Please. You all wear it like a badge.”  
“Well, not anymore.”  
“That’s interesting.”  
“Is it?”  
“Never met a defector from the Elite Guard. I thought Hell brainwashed you all.”  
Dean shrugged. “You gonna let us pass?”  
“How do we you know you’re not State spies?”  
It was a good question. Sam looked to Dean and then back to the woman, who had moved closer to the edge of the first-storey roof. The man stood back, his gun still on them.  
“Come in, we’ll search you, and if you’re clean we’ll let you go. If you still want to go.”  
“I don’t know which part of that I believe least,” Dean said.  
“Do what she says,” said the blond man, sighting them with excessive performance.  
Dean shrugged and gestured for Sam to follow him as he entered the building. The woman descended from the roof by nimbly climbing down the guttering, and followed them inside, still holding her gun before her.  
It was dark inside, a low stone room with doors leading off to different parts of the compound. Low bar lights ran around the alcoves, connected by bare wires to a generator in one corner. Next to the generator a computer that looked to be home-made from spare parts sat on a low table. A man in his forties or fifties was working at it. The larger table was partly covered with paper and tablets, and notes, maps and diagrams were pinned to a noticeboard. Several chairs and a few crates were scattered around. Laid out on a trunk near the far door were guns in various states of assembly, those ready for use hung up on the wall behind it. Two women, one middle-aged and one barely more than a teenager, were working on something at the table, and Sam could make out the sounds of more people away down the corridors. At their entrance all three looked up.  
“Shani, roof guard please,” said their captor, and the younger woman nodded and went to take a gun from the wall. She regarded Sam and Dean on her way out with a mixture of suspicion and interest.  
“Found a couple of runaways,” said their captor to the room at large. “This one’s an ex-Guard.”  
“Now _that_ sounds useful,” said the man, looking up from the computer.  
“We’re not here to join the Resistance,” Dean snapped.  
“Then we might have more in common than you think,” said their captor. “We’re not the Resistance you’re thinking of.” She casually walked around to stand in front of them, and wordlessly the older man stood up and went to stand near the door. “Strip.”  
“Sorry baby, this ain’t a public show.”  
“That wasn’t a question,” she raised her gun. Dean’s jaw visibly tensed and Sam felt his hands clench into fists. “Unless you are State spies, I have no interest in killing you,” she said, reminding Sam forcibly of the white coats. “But if you do not co-operate I will do so. Now _strip_.” She cocked her finger on the trigger and the older woman stood up, arming herself also.  
“Do it,” Dean said to Sam, and they stripped, one by one, each permitted to move as their captor held the gun on the other. Meanwhile the older woman upended their bags on the table, handling each weapon with interest and placing them neatly side by side. The food and water she set in a separate pile, and their first aid supplies and other assortments in a third. When each was completely naked, and the rest of Dean’s weapons confiscated, their captor nodded and said, “Alright. Jenny, scan please.” The older woman went to the drawer beneath the computer and retrieved an identichip scanner. It was an older model but still perfectly functional. She ran it over Sam and Dean’s right forearms.  
“Clean,” she said. “And the scars from removal are relatively recent.”  
“They could have put some kind of damper on them,” their captor frowned. “The only real way is to open them up and really dig around, but I’d rather not risk the damage. Any communications equipment?”  
“No.”  
Their captor pursed her lips. “Alright,” she said, and put her gun down. “You can get dressed again.”  
Dean glared. “And then what?”  
“We can talk,” said the captor. “My name is Ruby. What are yours?”  
“Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”  
“A classic movie buff,” she raised her eyebrows. “Alright then Butch – get dressed.” And she turned her back as they did so. The door guard still had a gun though, and when Dean moved to reclaim their belongings, the older woman shook her head.  
“Soon,” she said. “When we know you a little bit better.”  
Ten minutes later, they were sitting in another stone room rather larger than their reception area. Here were a few more small tables instead of one large one. Several more people were scattered around, some eating, some talking, some reading and writing. Most were armed, but their demeanour was quiet and business-like.  
“Look,” Sam said to Dean, nodding to where two men and a woman sat talking at a table. One of the men held a baby in one arm. Sam knew nothing about infants, but this one was so new it was still red, its face wrinkled and puckered as it slept, sucking audibly on the inside of its mouth. There was also a little boy sitting with a woman in the far corner, working his way methodically through a bowl of cereal.  
“Where do you think little terrorists come from?” Dean said dryly.  
“Um, excuse me, but the preferred term is freedom fighters,” said Ruby. “And in any case, we’re hardly in that business anymore. This compound is primarily defensive. Would you like something to eat or drink?”  
“No thanks,” said Dean sweetly.  
“I’d really like some water,” said Sam, and Dean glared at him. “If they wanted us dead we’d be dead by now,” Sam reasoned.  
“I like him,” said Ruby, “He’s smart.” She caught the eye of a man on his way past. “Matt,” she addressed him, “Can you get us some water and a round of beers? I don’t want to leave our guests.”  
“Sure thing, Ruby,” said the grey-haired man, eyeing Sam and Dean levelly. “Escapees?”  
“Right. I’m just about to explain our position.”  
“Don’t bother,” Dean said. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”  
“Is that what they told you to say?” replied Ruby. “Look. We commit pre-meditated acts of violence in the pursuit of our political aims. Small scale nowadays – pick off the odd drone, disable vehicles, sabotage communication systems. You were a Guard. You can’t honestly tell me you don’t see the irony in _you_ calling _us_ murderers.”  
“I don’t kill civilians,” Dean said.  
“But the State would’ve killed me,” said Sam slowly. “And if you hadn’t broken orders, you might have had to kill me.”  
“I wouldn’t have done that,” Dean snapped.  
“Nor would I,” Ruby said. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Maybe you and me have more in common than you think, Butch.”  
“Look,” Dean sighed. “I got no particular love for the State. Believe me. But we’re not interested in fighting your war, trying to bring it down. And we’re _definitely_ not interested in your _methods_.”  
“Oh _whatever_ ,” said Ruby, as Matt returned with their waters and beer. “Just because your weapons systems let you shoot from further away, you think there’s any less blood on your hands?”  
Dean’s mouth quirked. “No. I don’t.”  
“And in any case, like I told you, this is not the Resistance. We left.”  
“Why?”  
“Because they’ve lost their way,” said Ruby frankly. “Not everyone who resists the State has the same ideas. The Resistance is playing with dangerous tools: biological weaponry, messianic prophecies, genetic manipulation.”  
Sam’s jaw dropped. Dean shot him a warning look.  
“I’m all for bringing down the State, but not at any cost,” Ruby said. “We start playing God like that, we’re as bad as them. So I guess you might call us…separatists,” she shrugged. “Like you, we just want to live our lives, and defend ourselves. When we get the chance to make a strike against the State, we take it. Why’d they want to kill you?” she turned abruptly to Sam.  
“I…” he said.  
“We’re heretics,” said Dean quickly. “We don’t believe in God.”  
“Hasn’t he got a tongue?” Ruby arched an eyebrow at Sam. “How’d you see the light?”  
“None of your business,” Dean snapped.  
“Fair enough,” Ruby stood, taking one of the beers with her. “Have it your way. We’ll blindfold you and take you to a secure location.”  
“Wait,” Sam said.  
Dean glanced at him sharply.  
“Yes?” said Ruby.  
“We should stay,” Sam said in a rush.  
“Sam!” exclaimed Dean.  
“It makes sense,” Sam said. “Dean, you said yourself, we can’t keep wandering forever. We’ll get caught and killed, or die of dehydration in the desert. This place is better defended than any Ghost town. They have food supplies and – and organization.”  
“Designated supply runners and a regular defence rota,” Ruby acknowledged. “Semi-reliable electricity. All we ask is that you do your bit to keep the place running, and take out a couple of drones when you get the chance. Hardly a problem for an ex-Guard. Oh, and we don’t discriminate on a heteronormative basis.”  
“What?” Dean demanded.  
“You – can – be – out – with – your – boyfriend,” she said slowly, tilting her head at Sam. “No-one cares here.”  
Dean glared at her, radiating dislike. Then he looked at Sam.  
“We’ll stay tonight,” he said finally. “Let us talk in private.”  
“Excellent!” Ruby slammed her beer bottle down on the table like a gavel. “Good choice. The enemy of my enemy, remember? I’ll show you to the living quarters. You understand I can’t give you your weapons back. Just until we know each other better.”  
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Dean said.  
“Because you know how war works,” she told him. Ruby had someone retrieve their bags with their personal effects but not their weapons. Then she led them to a trapdoor and down a stone flight of stairs, to a long corridor that reminded Sam uncomfortably of the prison. Instead of cells, bedrolls were partitioned by thin screens.  
“Last on the left is free,” Ruby instructed them. “Dinner is at 19.00. Turn up or don’t.” She turned to go. “Uh, the trapdoor’s guarded,” she looked almost apologetic for a second. “I’m willing to let you go, but if you’re staying here I have to think of the community first.”  
“So you’re the big cheese around here?”  
“We don’t have leaders, if that’s what you’re asking,” she replied to Dean. “I was pretty high up in the Resistance at one point, and I got out. I suppose that gives me a certain kudos. Major decisions are taken by vote. When you’re one of us, you’ll have an equal say in them.”  
“You seem awfully sure we’ll stay,” said Dean as she turned away.  
“Why would you go?” she asked without looking back, and her footsteps faded away down the corridor. Sam drew back the partition to the space they’d been assigned: one bedroll, big enough for two people, but very definitely meant for a couple. It wouldn’t put them any closer than they’d already been sleeping. Sam sat down on it. Dean hesitated. Then he joined him.  
“Did you hear what she said?” Sam said quietly. “About genetic engineering?”  
“And messianic prophecies. Sam, whatever you’re thinking, stop it now. Just – keep quiet.”  
“But she might know—”  
“About you? Yeah. And then you’ll be right back in a lab prison where we started from, except theirs will make State torture look like a holiday camp.”  
“Someone here might know who my parents were.”  
“You know who they were.”  
“I mean _who they were!_. As people. I want to know why my mother did this to me.”  
“Sam…” Dean looked vaguely helpless for a second. “What good will it do? She did what she did. She’s dead. Open it up and you’ll just bring a whole shitstorm down on yourself. And me.”  
“But what if…”  
“But nothing,” Dean snapped. “You want to stay, we’ll stay awhile. But for fuck’s sake, keep quiet. Just be a regular runaway.”  
“But I’m _not_ a regular runaway,” Sam said quietly. “I’m meant for – something else. It’s not right, Dean, the way things are. How the State can just dominate everything and – and keep the Ghosts living like this. They’re not monsters. How can they bring us up to believe it’s just natural, to think the Ghosts aren’t people? But they are people. And the Resistance - I haven’t met them but – but it can’t be any worse than what the State does. What it did to me. If they find us, they’ll kill us – and I don’t know about you, but I don’t _want_ to just roll over and die.” And that was it, really. He realized that was the base of it. “I want to fight. For my life, for your life. For a better world.”  
Dean gaped at him.  
“A _better world?_ Sammy, listen to yourself.”  
“It’s Sam,” said Sam coldly.  
“Sam. Okay.” Dean blew out his breath. “We’re just two guys-“  
“No. We’re not,” Sam said quietly. “You were a Guard, and I’m…”  
“What?”  
“I’m the Weapon,” Sam said. “They said it themselves.”  
“Sam, promise me something,” Dean turned to him and gripped his shoulders. “Promise me you won’t tell Ruby.”  
Sam met his eyes. And he felt love, and gratitude. He did love Dean. But he felt something else, too. Something bigger than love, and harder. Something like duty.  
“I promise,” he said.  
Dean leaned forward and kissed his mouth. Sam jumped, not expecting it. But Dean didn’t let him go, he gripped the back of Sam’s head and pushed them harder together. It was good, but Sam struggled to get a breath.  
“I want to fuck you,” Dean whispered into his mouth.  
“What?” Arousal shot straight down Sam’s stomach to his groin, and he felt himself growing hard. “How – how is that…?”  
“Shh,” Dean said. Barely drawing back, he groped for his bag with one hand and pulled out something Sam couldn’t see, what with Dean’s other hand still firmly angling his face. Since Dean had left the Guard and Sam had hiked for miles carrying his heavy pack, the difference between their strengths had decreased slightly, but Dean could still easily overpower him. Sam liked it. Destiny may have a cause for him, but right now, he wanted to be overpowered. He let Dean take charge of him, unbuttoning his clothes, nakedness practically prosaic now, it had been such a short time since they’d stripped before the guns. Why the fuck not, Sam thought viciously, fuck you to the God he no longer believed in, to the State that would murder him, to his parents. He defied them all.  
“What do we do?” he asked Dean, heart and muscles jumping as Dean trailed a hand down his chest, around his waist, slid his other arm down until he was holding Sam with both hands at the small of his back.  
“Relax,” Dean said, “I’ll show you.” His fingers teased lower, and Sam gasped, fingers clenching the warm muscles at Dean’s shoulder blades:  
“No,” he said.  
“No?” Dean paused.  
“Not no - I mean, how…how is that even…?”  
“It’s possible,” Dean pulled back and looked him directly in the eye. “Trust me. It hurts the first time, when you first…but then, you adjust, and it’s amazing. And we use these.” He moved one hand to show Sam the items he’d removed from his backpack. One was a condom, Sam recognized. He knew people who had bought them on the black market. The other was a small tub of something that looked like clear gel. “It makes it easier,” Dean explained.  
“Have you…?” Sam frowned, still trying to wrap his head around the logistics of it.  
“Both ways,” Dean affirmed. “You can fuck me, if you want.”  
“No, I want you to,” Sam decided suddenly. He couldn’t visualize what Dean was suggesting, but if Dean said it was possible, then it was. He jumped at the first touch of the cold gel, then goose-bumps ran up his spine as first one, then two of Dean’s fingers probed the delicate entrance to his body. It was neither bad nor good at the moment. It was just – strange. A third finger, and Sam was surprised to find that his body was adjusting, a little –  
“Take deep breaths,” Dean instructed: “Relax,” but he was breathing harder himself now, and Sam struggled to obey. “Are you sure?” Dean whispered in his ear, and Sam said,  
“Yes,” but nothing could really prepare him for when the fingers were taken away and Dean entered his body for the first time. It hurt. Not unbearably, but it did hurt. Sam gritted his teeth, fingernails digging into Dean’s back. It burned and he felt like the edges of his skin would tear. He breathed hard.  
“Is – what -?”  
“It’s okay,” Dean coaxed him, running his hands up and down Sam’s back, “It gets better.” And then suddenly something happened. Sam muscles relaxed, gave way, as though with a sudden decision, and then Dean was _in him_ , impossibly, filling his body and blanking his mind, no space for anything else.  
“OhmyGod,” Sam breathed. “Oh – fuck…”  
Dean started to move. Sam moved with him, automatically. Then, something inside him sparked, so intense but so brief and gone too soon, and he yelped,  
“Fuck!”  
“Meet your prostate,” Dean whispered, breathing hard. That place sparked again, rhythmically, in time with Dean’s movements, and Sam was reduced to begging, incoherent demands – interrupted by the briefest flashback of himself a year ago, what he would think of him now. They moved together - Sam had more stamina now, but he still didn’t take long. He’d thought it was a myth to come so hard that your vision whited, just something bad kids bragged about, but it happened. Surprisingly Dean wasn’t far behind him, muttering,  
“Yes. Sam.”  
It hurt again when Dean pulled out, but not as bad, and the pain was too numbed by endorphins for Sam to particularly care. Sam collapsed, breathing hard, and Dean lay down beside him, one hand over his hip, possessive.  
“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly.  
Sam snorted.  
“You are,” Dean insisted. “I’ve never met anyone so…”  
“So what?”  
Dean shrugged. “You know I’m not good with the talking bit,” he grinned self-depreciatingly.  
“Oh God,” a cold feeling threatened to dampen Sam’s afterglow. “The bedroll.”  
Pause.  
“We’ll switch it with someone else’s,” said Dean after a moment.  
Sam couldn’t help himself – he started giggling. “That is so wrong,” he said. There was a long gutter at the far end of the corridor, four taps set reasonably high in the wall, four bars of soap, and a bucket. “We have to clean up before someone comes,” Sam said. But God, he just wanted to sleep. His eyes were already closing.  
“I’ll do it,” Dean said abruptly. He got up. Sam heard him moving around – then he jumped when a cold, wet cloth touched his lower stomach. He felt something warm and familiar at the back of his thighs, and he touched them –  
-“Blood,” he said in alarm, bringing his fingers up to look at them.  
“It’s alright, it’s not much,” Dean said. “It happens sometimes. Especially to virgins.” He chuckled. “Virgin. That’s so hot. Not a virgin anymore huh?” he said smugly, and pressed a kiss to the place between Sam’s shoulder blades. Sam felt uneasy. It wasn’t that the pain was so bad, more a deep ache inside him now, though he’d definitely feel it for a few days. Dean was right that the amount of blood was small, and also bright red, which meant superficial bleeding. But the fact his skin had torn seemed a testimony to the unnaturalness of the act.  
“Fuck nature,” he said suddenly, aggressively, pressing his face into the soiled bedroll. He breathed in the scent of them together. Dirty. Intoxicating. “I’m not a natural thing anyway.”  
“What?” Dean sounded completely confused, then apparently he got it. “Oh. Well, guess what? It happens to girls too sometimes And a guy and a girl don’t always…look, just. There’s a lot more to sex than they tell you in school, okay? God. Sometimes you seem so old, Sam, and then…”  
“Alright I get it,” Sam snapped, sitting up. “I’m sheltered.”  
“You um…” Dean looked askance suddenly. He sat with his knees near his chest and picked at the bedroll. “That was – you really wanted that?”  
“God, _yes_ ,” Sam hurried to assure him. “I mean – it was weird. But Dean, it was amazing. I’ve never felt anything like that.”  
“Well there you go,” Dean shrugged. “I wanted, you wanted. We did. End of story. Nothing guilty or unnatural about it. Now I really do have to do something about this.” He started pulling the bedroll out from under Sam. He switched it with another partition’s that looked unoccupied, bundling it up and stuffing it into a corner. Then he lay back down next to Sam. Sam’s eyes closed involuntarily. Then they opened again.  
“Hey Dean,” he said.  
“What?”  
“Ruby called me your boyfriend.”  
Dean rolled his eyes, Sam thought at the mention of Ruby’s name more than the insinuation.  
“How did she know that?”  
“Because she has wisdom beyond us ordinary mortals,” Dean snarked.  
“Why don’t you like her?”  
“Uh, let me see. Possibly because she has our weapons, and oh, yeah, she made us strip in front of her firing squad.”  
“She’s just looking out for the compound,” Sam said. “You’d do the same.”  
Dean grunted.  
“She reminds me of you,” Sam said, mostly just to get a reaction, but it wasn’t without a certain truth.  
“Go to sleep,” Dean said and closed his own eyes.  
So Sam did, smiling, of all things._ _ _ _ _

_____10._ _ _ _ _

_____They went to dinner in the communal hall. It was that or go hungry: all that was left in their bags were a few pieces of bread with mould creeping around the edges, and a slice of dried meat that smelled dubious. Ruby was there, and she nodded to them, but didn’t sit nearby. She was at a table with the older man who’d been at the computer and some people Sam didn’t recognize. Sam counted twenty-one people in the hall – adding in those on guard or at other duties, he estimated the commune population to be around thirty, excluding him and Dean.  
Dinner was a kind of savoury stew made of some pulse and rough bread. The stew was spicy and tinged with orange. Dean eyed it suspiciously.  
“Full of protein and vitamins” said a woman communist, who was carrying the new red baby Sam had noticed earlier, and sat down at their table with an encouraging smile. She was tall, with round, earnest blue eyes, and younger than Sam had first thought upon seeing her. He realized now there were three distinct generations here – the older people, fifties and a couple above, who must have helped found the commune or come with the first deserters. Then those in their twenties and thirties, and their offspring. The last generation, he realized, must have been born here. Somehow that made him feel – optimistic. There was civilization outside the State, and outside the misery of the Ghost towns.  
“I’m Ocean,” said the woman, offering a hand. Dean snorted, and Sam kicked him under the table as he shook Ocean’s hand. “My uh, parents wanted to see the sea someday,” she explained apologetically. “They were first generation, you know? If it redeems me any I named my son Joe.”  
Dean tried to hide his smile. Sam said,  
“I’m Sam, this is Dean.”  
“How’d you get out? Oh, excuse me, this is Greg. My partner,” as the man who’d been carrying the baby before came to join them at the table. He smiled and nodded. Sam felt warmed with the sheer propriety of it – first the jail, then from Ghost town to Ghost town, it had been too long since they’d found themselves in civilized company. He glanced at Dean, who looked bored. But then, Sam thought, soldiers probably weren’t that civilized.  
“So I hear you were State,” Greg said as he sat down.  
“Word gets around fast,” Dean said.  
“It’s a small commune. Why’d you leave?” Greg asked.  
“Broke the law a few too many times.”  
“What are they gonna do to a Guard? You were valuable.”  
“Can’t order a man who don’t want to be ordered,” Dean said philosophically.  
“That’s the truth,” Greg agreed.  
“And you, Sam?” Ocean asked, unbuttoning her top and exposing one breast to feed the baby, which had been making small grunting noises but stopped immediately on contact with her nipple. Its mouth opened and latched on with a strong sucking sound, and its eyes closed in concentration as it gulped milk. Sam tried not to stare.  
“He was my partner in crime,” Dean said easily. He was doing a better job ignoring the painful-looking procedure, and Sam guessed he had seen it before, maybe amongst Ghosts. “I’m a terrible influence.”  
“No you aren’t,” Sam said, and told Ocean and Greg: “Dean’s taught me more in a year than the State colleges did my whole life.”  
“Was it hard?” Ocean asked. “Getting out, I mean. If you don’t mind me asking…I never met an ex-Citizen before.”  
“It was no walk in the park,” Dean said. “Course all the shit they spent twenty-two years teaching me came in handy.” He was trying hard not to get drawn into conversation, Sam could tell, but he couldn’t help it. Dean liked people, liked talking, and was hardly averse to a little showing-off for an attractive woman, present company notwithstanding. A faint hint of his trademark grin played at the corners of his mouth. Sam tamped down his frustration. He had the real Dean, he assured himself. He was the only one who did. Dean would probably always flirt to some degree. It was just part of his character.  
“How did you…” Greg frowned. “I mean, as I understand it, the State regime is completely intolerant of dissident ideologies. How did you overcome your conditioning? What did your parents…?”  
“Our parents are dead,” Sam said. “We were raised by the State. And yeah, we’re going against everything we ever learned and I still feel guilty – all the time. But when they turn on you, when they’ll kill you for something you can’t help, it’s kind of hard to believe…” He closed his mouth abruptly, realising what he’d said.  
“Something you…can’t help?” Ocean asked, and Sam could feel Dean glaring daggers at him.  
“Loving another man!” The save came to Sam suddenly.  
“ _Oh,_ ” said Ocean with understanding. “Oh, I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to…”  
“That’s okay,” Sam said quickly. Dean looked relieved, if vaguely uncomfortable, but Sam figured that was mostly to do with the invocation of love.  
“You were caught?” Greg asked, and Ocean smacked him lightly with the hand that wasn’t holding the baby.  
“That’s none of our business,” she said.  
“It’s our business how newcomers get to be here,” Greg objected without hostility: “Especially State newcomers. There must be more like them – who can’t live by the State’s ideologies through no fault of their own. If we could get the word out…”  
“There you go again,” Ocean rolled her eyes. “I left that kind of ambition behind when I left the Resistance.”  
“Why _did_ you leave the Resistance?” Sam asked. “Was it like Ruby – you didn’t agree with what they’re doing now?”  
“Well broadly, I’d say that’s why we’re all here,” Ocean said. “Except the children, of course. Though different people have different – straws, if you like. Things that push them to make the decision. For me it was when I got pregnant. I didn’t want to take part in biomodification – that’s, you know, the experimental scheme where they’re trying to produce super-babies.”  
“Trying?” Sam repeated. “So it hasn’t worked?”  
Ocean looked hesitant, and Sam was reminded they were still on tenuous ground.  
“We’re not spies,” he reasserted.  
“If you were you’d be shot for incompetence,” Greg said. “Let’s just say their record hasn’t been the most successful.”  
“Would they make you?” Dean asked Ocean.  
“That’s…not the official line. But they can make it pretty difficult for you to say no. Fertility rates have dropped off in the past twenty years, and whilst there’s a faction that claims they should just concentrate on healthy reproduction, there’s a group of powerful hardliners who want to take every opportunity to produce this – superhuman or whatever.” She shrugged. The baby released her breast from its mouth and made a strange sound. Ocean put her breast away and hitched the baby onto her shoulder, patting its back. “You have to make them burp,” she told Sam with amusement: obviously he wasn’t as subtle as he thought he was being.  
“I think you did the right thing,” Sam told her.  
Ocean shrugged. “I don’t know. God knows I want to see the State fall, but not at the risk of my child. I’m too selfish.”  
“It’s not selfish,” Sam argued. “It’s – natural. He’s…” he supposed this was where he should compliment the baby.  
“Pretty boring, at this stage,” Ocean finished with a smile. “To everyone except us,” she shared a look with Greg, who smiled in acknowledgement.  
“I don’t know how someone could do it,” Sam said. “To their own child, I mean.”  
“People have their reasons,” Ocean said. “The cause is more important to some than their lives. Or their children’s lives. I do understand that. I just don’t think they’re going about it the right way.”  
“So you done?” Dean wiped his hands on his trousers and glanced at the rest of Sam’s food, which he showed no signs of eating.  
“Yeah,” Sam shook his head. “Nice – nice to meet you. Both of you.”  
“You too,” Ocean smiled up at him as he stood, still bouncing the baby on her shoulder._ _ _ _ _

_____* * *_ _ _ _ _

_____Dean of course was put on defense duty. Sam was set to work repairing and improving part of the drainage system underground at the back of the compound. He had theoretical understanding of structural engineering, understood what the problem was, but had never done any kind of work with his hands before. His co-worker was a short dark man who had no use for conversation. He told Sam what to do and kept half an eye on him whilst he did it, but any polite overtures or questions were met with silence. The man had a wide half-moon scar on his left cheek, and was missing the last two fingers of his left hand.  
Twice a day Sam was trained with firearms. Apparently he was the only adult here who had never fired a gun, but that soon changed. He wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t a natural either. They gave him simple weapons that were easy to operate. By the end of the third day he was hitting a target more often than missing it.  
They ate in the communal hall, sometimes with Greg and Ocean, and they slept in the barracks during the second sleep-rota. They made love again, and this time there was less pain before the pleasure – Sam’s embarrassment was lessened only slightly by the fact he’d twice overheard other couples doing the same. They rarely saw Ruby. Duties were assigned by a rota posted in the hall, and everyone seemed happy enough with their lot. On the fourth day, Sam saw two women kissing as he passed their sleeping partition, which was slightly askance. They didn’t seem to notice him, or the fact that their door was open. His eyes lingered on them for a brief second, more surprise than anything. The next day he saw them holding hands.  
On the fifth day a general meeting was held in the communal hall to discuss weekly business.  
“We picked up over the wire that a State emissary will be passing the north-east route tomorrow around dawn,” Ruby announced. “It sounds like they’ll have at least a couple of Guards, but the convoy itself is only three, so it won’t be a huge outfit. Volunteers?”  
“I’ll go,” said the taciturn man Sam had been working with, and the young woman they’d seen at the table the first day also volunteered.  
“What’s the convoy?” Sam asked.  
“Military scientists,” Ruby said. “A Professor Kircher and two assistants. Want to come? Get your feet wet?”  
“Yes,” said Sam.  
“Is that wise?” said the blond man who was often in Ruby’s company. Sam had picked up that his name was Jack, somewhere along the line.  
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” she said lightly. “Dean?”  
Dean shrugged. “Been waiting to get my hands on one of those M16s you got goin’ to waste.”  
Ruby nodded approvingly. “Rendezvous 06:00 at the back meeting point. We’ll bring kit for you,” she addressed Sam and Dean.  
That night, Sam said,  
“It’s good here, isn’t it?”  
“Been worse,” Dean shrugged.  
Determinedly, Sam climbed on top of him, felt the warmth of their bodies pressed together slowly and unequivocally arouse him. Dean’s responding erection against him.  
“We could die tomorrow,” he said against Dean’s mouth.  
“We could die anytime.”  
“If we go to Hell, I’m not sorry.”  
“We’re not going to Hell. Hell doesn’t exist, except as a training camp for the Elite Guard, and I’ve already been there. ”  
“How do you know?”  
“Because I know.”  
“What will happen when we’re dead?”  
“Decomposition.”  
“You’re disgusting.”  
“I know it.”  
“How did you get this one?” Sam asked, laying his palm flat on the scar that ran messily under Dean’s navel, curling up around to the bottom of the ribs on his right side.  
“Bomb blast.”  
“It must have almost killed you.”  
Dean made a falsely dismissive noise and said in a tough-guy voice, “You ain’t a Guard till you’ve spilled your guts on the enemy’s ground.”  
“Is that what they tell you in Hell?”  
“Hmm. Amongst other things.” Dean turned his head to the side and bit Sam’s earlobe. Sam jumped, and Dean ran a hand down his flank. “You want…?”  
“Yes.”  
For a moment, Sam thought Dean was going to invite him to change roles, but Dean had no such intention. He turned Sam over and entered him hard, less restrained than before, less gentle. Pain and pleasure were less than distinct, and Sam had to bite his knuckles to keep from screaming at the moment of orgasm, other hand scrabbling at Dean’s back, leaving scratches.  
After, when he went to the showers to wash up, Ruby was there, just leaving, a plain towel wrapped tight around her small curvaceous body. Even here, she looked like a warrior: lean and toned and compact, more dangerous and more capable than the team-sports and fresh-food reared women of State Colleges. Her left calf muscle was peppered with pale circular scars. Her dark eyes met Sam’s for the briefest moment, more knowing than judgemental, and the corner of her generous mouth quirked up in a smirk.  
“Don’t be late,” she said, and brushed past him._ _ _ _ _

_____* * *_ _ _ _ _

_____At 02:33, Sam sat bolt upright in the bedroll and gasped, clamping both hands hard over his mouth to stifle a different scream.  
“Sammy?” Dean sat up after him, instantly awake, laying a hand on the small of his back.  
“Oh God,” said Sam. “Jack is going to die.” He bowed his head to his knees and closed his eyes, feeling himself shake, trying to rid his brain of the nightmare images. In his mind’s eye he saw Jack lying in scrubland dirt, at pale dawn, dark clothes drenched with blood and more blood trickling from his slack mouth. He saw the State bullet pierce his body-armour effortlessly, tear through muscle and bone, severing blood vessels and the darker meat of organs. Jack died with an expression of profound surprise on his face.  
“We can’t let him go,” Sam said.  
Dean said nothing.  
“I have to warn him.”  
“Sam,” said Dean warningly.  
“I can’t-”  
“We know these visions don’t have to happen like you see them. Remember Max. So I’ll stick around Jack and make sure he doesn’t get himself killed, okay?”  
“But-”  
“No.”  
Sam glared at Dean. He wanted to argue, _‘you can’t tell me what to do’_ (But Dean could, he supposed: Sam owed him his life several times over. Really, Dean was the smart one).  
“Well don’t you get yourself killed either,” Sam snapped finally, and lay back down, his back to Dean, posture defensive.  
Dean chuckled.  
“And don’t laugh at me!”  
“I’m not, I’m not, okay sorry. Okay, babe?” he slid an arm around Sam’s waist. Sam didn’t react, but he didn’t push him off either. Part of him was pleased by the endearment, how casual it sounded, another part vaguely insulted by the knowledge that in some ways Dean would always think of him as child.  
“Yeah,” he said finally. Dean kissed the nape of his neck and Sam relaxed, only mildly annoyed with himself for how easily Dean won him over. “I’m going back to sleep.”  
He didn’t. Dean didn’t either, his body remaining alert behind Sam, breathing regular but shallow.  
06:00 was cold and the air clear, stars crisper and brighter than in the city, nearer than the Ghost towns. They were six: Ruby and Jack, the young woman Shani, the taciturn man, and Sam and Dean. The other communists were dressed all in black – clothes Sam partly recognised from his vision – and their faces were half-obscured by masks. Jack produced similar outfits for Sam and Dean with a short instruction to change. They did so, Sam turning his back briefly to protect what remained of his modesty, although clearly no-one was looking. The night chill raised the hairs on his exposed body, and he caught the blur of Dean’s pale skin from the corner of his eye, whiter in the darkness. ‘ _We could die tonight,_ ’ he thought again, and wished he’d tried harder the night before to tell Dean he loved him.  
They piled into one of the off-road vehicles and made the short drive to the stretch of road their scouts had suggested as the best place for a raid. Here the road ran beneath a small scrubby cliff, giving them the advantage of height. Ruby and Dean consulted on the best place to leave the vehicle: far enough to be out of sight, not so far as to be inaccessible for a quick getaway.  
“I’ll take the low ground,” Jack said, indicating to the far side of the road. That was clearly a more dangerous position, shielded only by trees and a few rocks - but their best chance of a clean kill was brief sustained fire from either side of the road, taking out as many of the Guards as possible and leaving the scientists defenceless.  
“I’ll go with you,” Dean said casually. Sam’s eyes darted to him. Dean gave him a look that conveyed _‘come on. You think_ this _is high risk to me?’_ and _‘Trust me’_ at the same time.  
“Me too,” Shani offered. “Three and three.”  
Ruby and the taciturn man exchanged a look, and both nodded. Sam wished he’d volunteered for the low ground too, but now it was too late.  
“Fifteen minutes to sunrise,” said Ruby evenly, checking her wristwatch once they were in position. She sighted down the barrel of her gun. “You good?” she asked Sam.  
“Sure,” he said.  
“Know what to do?”  
“Dean blows the whistle, we fire.”  
“Right enough. Worried about your boyfriend?”  
“Worried about yours?”  
Ruby’s mouth quirked. “Jack’s not my boyfriend.” She adjusted herself slightly, eyes never leaving the road below.  
The first thing they heard was the rumble of an engine in the distance, very quiet, just a suggestion of a sound. Ruby’s muscles tensed. Her eyes widened very slightly and then narrowed, small enough to be imperceptible if Sam hadn’t been crouching right next to her. She tightened her grip on her gun.  
“Ready,” she said quietly. It wasn’t a question.  
The vehicles came into sight, just dots at first, then headlights, then the shape of two 4x4s: apparently these white coats weren’t important enough for both front and rearguard. Closer, closer, and Sam thought, _‘there are people in there. People I’m going to kill_ ’. And then he remembered the way they had looked on him when he was strapped to the chair, their cool efficient delivery of the drugs, and fuck it. He was ready. They deserved to die more than he did. If God was real and God thought different, then God was wrong. At the very split second the convoy entered the space on the road below them, the shrill metal whistle split the air, and Sam fired.  
The sound of guns firing all around him was louder than anything Sam had ever heard. He didn’t know what was outside him and how much was in his head. Immediately the Guards below began to return fire, but someone had blown out at least one tyre on each of the vehicles, and two were preoccupied trying to regain control. Sam heard a scream, a window shattered, and blood spurted from the empty pane to pool with broken glass on the road. A Guard was standing below the cliff, eyes on their point, and Sam saw him aim but the taciturn man squinted, and in the next second the Guard went down with a bullet in her neck. The other Guard was turned towards the other side of the road, firing. He too collapsed.  
A moment of weighted quiet as dust settled. Muffled sobs from the car.  
Ruby let out a whoop of triumph and pushed up her mask. She scrambled agilely down to the dirt road. Sam pushed up his own mask to breathe better, then he and his other comrade followed a little more slowly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dean, Jack and Shani, all alive, clambering out of the ditch and gathering around the Guard who lay dead near them, starting to strip him of weapons and armor. They caught up just as she wrenched the car door open: the two remaining white coats were huddled against the far door. Both were older men, one whispering prayers, the other crying quietly. Sam felt his heart stall:  
“Samuel!” the prayers ended abruptly.  
“You,” said Sam slowly, recognition settling over him. “You were at the facility.” A name came back to him, cold and blank. Ellicot. Dr. Ellicot.  
“I-”  
“You tortured me.”  
“I didn’t-”  
“Well, you watched,” Sam shrugged. “You took notes.” His heart was beating again. Fast and hard. He could feel it pounding against his ribs. The memories of those days were distant – he knew they were made of the worst things imaginable, but he knew it distantly. Academically.  
“Don’t say you’re working for them,” the scientist’s eyes darted around to the others. “My God, anything but that. After all the State _did_ for you…”  
“ _Did_ for me?” Sam’s laugh was an ugly thing to his own ears – almost a bark. “You would have killed me.”  
“That was the last thing we wanted!”  
“You wanna do him?” Ruby stood back a little, her glance at Sam curious, and gestured to the scientist with her gun.  
“I…” Sam looked down at the gun in his hand. Looked at the scientist. Just then the _crack_ of a bullet split the air, a shout and a flurry of returning fire. Shani shouted,  
“Jack!”  
And Sam saw that beyond the car, the Guard who had fallen at the cliff’s base had clung to life long enough to fire as the other three approached. Now Jack was on the ground, gasping, blood streaming from mouth and stomach just as in Sam’s vision.  
“Fuck!” shouted Ruby, and she and the quiet man quickly shot both of the scientists – execution style, one bullet each to the brain, and with two there was more mess than when Jim died. They ran from the car, but by the time they reached the rest of their contingent, Jack was dead._ _ _ _ _

_____11._ _ _ _ _

_____“I’m sorry,” Dean said to Sam.  
“It wasn’t your fault,” said Sam absently.  
“I have guard duty,” Dean said.  
“Alright.”  
“What are you doing tonight?” Dean asked.  
“I’m free. Just gonna go to sleep, I guess.”  
“Okay. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”  
Dean leaned in and kissed him on the mouth, consolatory. No-one in the corridor gave them a second glance. Sam had no real intention of going to bed: sleep was about the furthest thing from his mind. He wandered around absently from a little while, said hi to Ocean, who was cleaning the serving countertop in the mess hall. Then he went outside to the back of the compound and walked a little way down the path to the rudimentary vegetable gardens. The first hardy shoots were beginning to poke their way over ground in anticipation of Spring, pale green and blunt. Once, Sam would have been preparing for Good Friday services, for kneeling on hard wooden floors in the unheated chapel, proud in the experience of physical discomfort, relishing his understanding of suffering.  
A figure stood under a tree in the moonlight, and as Sam drew closer he recognized Ruby. She was dressed in dark jeans as always, and a thick jacket against the night. A gun was holstered visibly at her hip. He coughed falsely.  
“I know you’re there,” she said. “You can come over if you want.”  
“I, um, I’m sorry about Jack,” Sam said pathetically.  
Ruby shrugged. “He knew the risks. Maybe tomorrow they’ll storm the compound and all of us will follow him.”  
“But you were friends.”  
She shrugged again. Sam was infuriated and sorry, and thought again how she reminded him of Dean.  
“I think you’re brave,” he said.  
“It’s not brave if you don’t have a choice.”  
“There’s always a choice. You could die.”  
“Well that would be stupid. We’re all gonna die anyway, and that’s for sure. Might as well stick around and see what happens in the meantime.”  
Sam considered.  
“You know what?” she said, turning to face him suddenly, and her dark eyes were more earnest than he’d ever seen them: “I think _you’re_ brave. I never met anyone who escaped the State before.”  
“Dean did it. He saved me. Got me out.”  
“Yes…” That considering look was back on her face, the same one he’d seen in the car. “Got you out of what? What were they doing to you, Sam? You mentioned that you were tortured.”  
“I was…” he looked down. “My parents were Resistance. The State didn’t trust me.”  
“What, they thought you were the Weapon?” she snorted.  
Sam said nothing. Ruby’s jaw dropped.  
“They _did!_ Christ, Sam!”  
“I’m not,” he said hastily. “I’m not – I’m nobody.”  
“No shit you’re not. I don’t believe in fairy-tales. One of the main problems with the Resistance is its faith in this goddam Messiah.”  
“Messiah? What – what do you mean?”  
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a legend. Something the more naïve tell themselves. As to personal beliefs, I say hey - whatever gets you through the night. But when people start designing battle strategy around the coming of a fantasy savior, that’s where I gotta draw the line.”  
“What do you mean?”  
She looked at him. “Come on. Your parents were Resistance and you don’t know the story?”  
“They died when I was a baby. I was raised by the State.”  
“Oh. Sorry.”  
“That’s okay. It’s not like I remember them.”  
“Well,” Ruby sighed, “Here are the facts. Twenty-odd years ago, the Resistance leaders found some woman whose genetic makeup they could manipulate with the tools they had to create the perfect bioweapon. She already had one kid, but they got her pregnant again by a guy they picked out for her, and they started the modifications. They monitored this foetus, and everything was going perfect – the baby was supposed to grow up to predict the future, move objects with the power of its mind, and generally bring salvation unto the people. Then, a couple of months before the due date, she vanished. No-one knows how or where. Kidnapped? Dead? Defected? Not likely. She was the perfect soldier – Mother of the Revolution and all that. Her name was – get this - _Mary_.” Ruby laughed. “So of course this kid is supposed to come back and claim his inheritance. Lead the people of out darkness, et cetera. Not everybody believes it.”  
“What happened to the other kid?” Sam’s mind was spinning. It was him, she had to be talking about him, and that meant he had a brother or sister out there someplace. Maybe not dead.  
“Disappeared when the happy couple did. The guy she was with disappeared too – the father of the first kid, I mean, not the one the State picked for her.”  
“You think that much is true?”  
“It is true. My parents knew her. Not like, well, but they knew who she was. Everybody did.”  
“Oh.”  
“Sooo...instead of fighting like grownups, half the Resistance council has staked their hopes and consequently their strategy on the return of the prodigal son.”  
Silence.  
“What…what do the Resistance want, Ruby?”  
“The end of the State,” Ruby ticked off on her fingers, “the end of the Church. Bring the Ghosts back to the cities. Let people live where they want and abolish the borders. Social and material equality – take the toys of the rich away until everyone can have enough to eat, somewhere to live, medicine and education for every person on the planet. Did you know we could achieve that with less than a quarter of the State’s material wealth? But they spend it on weapons and technology and security systems. They also want to stop destruction of the environment: intensive research into renewable fuel resources. Nothing to kill or die for, and no religion too. It’s a song,” she added in response to his look.  
“You still want that?”  
“Who wouldn’t?” Ruby looked at him like he was crazy. “The world doesn’t have to be this way, Sam. It’s this way because of the choices of a few evil, powerful people, and the willingness of everyone else to sit by and do nothing.” She laughed, a bitter little sound. “And I can talk. I walked away. I gave it up because I’m a coward.”  
“You’re not,” he told her fervently. “I – I admire you.”  
“It just seems so hopeless, sometimes,” she shook her head. “They’re so powerful. And look at us. I still believe there will be a Revolution. Someday. Inequalities will get worse and worse, more people will defect from the State, and one day the balance of power will turn. We won’t live to see it, but maybe our children will.” She shook her head. “Better to die free than live in slavery.”  
“It’s not hopeless,” Sam said. That old knowledge was back – the song of his life, the deep conviction that he was meant for more than this, that he was meant to change to the world. He thought of the way the Ghosts lived, how they died, their bodies discarded like trash on a daily basis. He thought of the Easter feast at College, of computers that worked at the speed of thought, of ever-more-sophisticated torture devices from the infinite wealth of the State. He thought of his promise to Dean, but then he remembered how Dean had always told him he was just one guy, that he couldn’t protect Sam forever, that he probably got most things wrong on a regular basis. That they would die when the State caught them, that their lives were insignificant. And he thought of Jack dying in the dirt.  
“Ruby,” he said, “I have to tell you…”  
“What?” she held his gaze. Her eyes were very wide and very dark in the moonlight.  
“I…don’t believe in fairy-tales either. But there’s something you need to know about me.”  
She waited.  
“I – can do things. The kinds of things…like the bioengineers wanted. Not always,” he added hastily. “I can’t control it very well. But the reason they kept me and tortured me is that I have some of the abilities of the modified children.”  
“Like what?” Ruby held very still.  
“I have premonitions. I dream things. And then sometimes, they come true.”  
“What kinds of things?”  
“Death, mostly.”  
“And?”  
“I have moved things. Once or twice. When I’m really scared or angry. I can’t control it; it just comes out of me.”  
A long moment of silence. Ruby nodded quietly to herself, apparently digesting this information.  
“I half-suspected,” she said at last. “There’s something about you, Sam.”  
“It doesn’t make me the Weapon.”  
“No but…it sure as hell makes you useful.”  
“I’m a freak.”  
“Hardly the first I’ve known,” she smirked. “The bioweapon program has been in planning for more than fifty years, and implemented for thirty. A lot of the babies are stillborn, some aborted. A few more die in infancy. But you’re not the first to grow up. There was a girl, when I was young, a few years older than me. She had dreams, too. And she could conduct electricity. She was insane, though. They tried for years to use her, but eventually they had to put her away.”  
“I’m not insane.”  
“I never thought you were.” She studied him. “It can get better,” she said. “With the right drugs you can learn to use it. To harness it. We have to train you.”  
“Don’t tell anyone,” Sam begged. “Not yet. Not till I can do something good with it.”  
“Alright,” Ruby nodded. “Just Ocean.”  
“Why Ocean?”  
“She’s a geneticist. She can formulate the injections we have to give you.”  
Sam gaped. “But – her baby – she said she ran away because…”  
“Well maybe it’s different when it’s your own kid. She quit, Sam, but once she was a believer.”  
Pause.  
“Alright,” he said finally. “Just – Ruby – Dean can’t know that I told you. I promised him…”  
“I understand,” she said. “You love him, and he takes care of you. But I don’t think he understands your potential.”  
“He doesn’t,” Sam affirmed.  
“Meet me tomorrow night in the lab at shift change. Same corridor as the mess hall, second door on the right coming from the front entrance. There’s a combination lock, but knock and I’ll let you in.”  
“I’ll be there,” Sam promised. Excitement was fluttering in his stomach, and determination. Once again he had purpose, the deep understanding that love was nothing to stake an existence on. Love was small and personal, and in the grand scheme of things, not important enough to justify his life. He was not afraid, because this was bigger than him and Dean. Dean would understand someday. And if he couldn’t understand – well, Sam would grieve, because he did love Dean, and it was because of Dean that Sam was still alive. But he couldn’t allow that selfishness to stand in the way of what he had to do.  
The loves of persons could not be counted against the events of the world. _ _ _ _ _

_____* * *_ _ _ _ _

_____SECURITY TO CENTRAL OFFICE OF THE HIEROPHANT.  
RE:CODENAME ‘SLEEPER’  
HIGH PRIORITY 10/03/2012.  
MESSAGE INTERCEPT: SPIDER TO THE NEST. WEAPON LOCATED AT N43.054425, W104.656628. BIOMANIUPULATION IN PROGRESS. NEST TO CONVERGE AT LOCATION 20/10/2012, 20:00. RECOMMEND INTERCEPTION.  
END REPORT.  
AUTHORISED AS OF THIS DATE  
GENERAL R Q ZACHARIAH  
CHIEF OF STATE SECURITY  
IN THE GLORY OF GOD AND THE STATE._ _ _ _ _

_____ _ _ _

_____* * *_ _ _ _ _

_____Five nights a week Sam went to the lab, and Ocean, serious-faced, injected him with something clear and cold.  
“What do you feel?” she asked, eyes on a monitor connected to his heartbeat.  
“It’s like adrenalin,” Sam told her. “I feel strong.”  
Ruby stood to one side, a small smile on her lips, but her eyes were dancing with excitement. After Ocean left, with a worried glance and instructions to call her if anything happened, Ruby would drill Sam, telling him to move small objects or locate another person in the commune. At first he couldn’t. But the drugs helped, and now with all his focus on calling it up instead of quashing it down, it soon came bubbling back to life, gleeful at its newfound freedom. He was better at telekenisis than visions, but often he knew what Dean was doing, could see him clearly in his mind, and he realized with a start that that link had existed for some time – deep down, if he called on it, an awareness of Dean’s movements and feelings had taken seat in his body, simmering below the surface of consciousness. Less often, he could envisage other people he knew, Ocean, Greg, and less often still a Ghost or a soldier travelling the land outside the compound. On one occasion, a crystal-clear vision of Elder Harvelle, more grey hair now and more lines, praying over a cup of wine in the privacy of her quarters. That one shocked him and stole his breath, alarming Ruby, but it vanished fast and did not return. Usually he could not see anything outside a few miles radius.  
He moved pens, then cups, then a knife, and then he made a coffeepot explode, and Ruby jumped up and hugged him, delighted. Shocked, he hugged her back, not knowing what else to do, surprised by the warmth of her lean muscles against his body, the firm softness of her breasts.  
“Amazing,” she breathed. “Amazing. We’ll do something small, live – a rat, next.”  
Sam frowned and pushed her back a bit. “You want me to kill a rat?”  
“Well – yeah. Or another small animal. It’s a weapon, after all. I don’t think you’re ready for humans yet.”  
Sam flashed back to the night he and Dean had fed the rat in the bush. The amused, unguarded expression on Dean’s face in the moonlight. Ruby stared at him.  
“How about a reptile?” She asked. “There are lizards in the garden.”  
Sam gathered himself and nodded. “Yes. A reptile,” he said.  
Of course, he was guilty.  
“You like it here,” said Dean to Sam one night.  
“ _You_ like it here,” Sam returned. Dean had taken to commune life with his usual efficiency. He took regular guard duty happily, and worked with the taciturn man – whose name Sam had learned at last was Marquez – on some of the armoured vehicles. He even took a turn in the garden sometimes. On the rare nights they had time together, he made love to Sam, as thoroughly and deliberately as he did everything else. Sam no longer had the heart to suggest they exchange positions, although he thought about it. The shocking overload of sensations he’d experienced when they’d first starting sleeping together had dwindled – his body responded predictably, building to a moderate physical release that failed to clear his mind for more than a few moments.  
“It’s a living,” Dean replied at last. He propped himself up on his elbow and regarded Sam, who was lying on his back staring at the ceiling. “You been spending a lot of time with Ruby lately.”  
“So?”  
“So nothing.”  
“Are you jealous? There’s nothing-”  
“I know,” Dean cut him off. “I wanted to say that I’ve changed my mind about her.”  
“You have?”  
“I ain’t saying we’re buddies or anything. She’s a cocky bitch and thinks she’s seen it all. But she’s…a good soldier,” Dean admitted. “She’d have made Guard.”  
“High praise.”  
“At first I figured she was playing us,” Dean said. “That she’d screw us over as soon as she got what she wanted. But I was wrong. She’s done a lot for this place and the people here. I don’t think she’d gamble that.”  
Sam was silent.  
“You okay?” Dean asked.  
“Yeah,” Sam said, and for the first time, felt a rush of something like pity. He reached up and placed his hand along the side of Dean’s face, felt a raised scar under his thumb. Sam thought of all the scars on Dean’s body that he knew so well now, ran his fingers around to the vulnerable nape of his neck, and wished Dean could be safe for a while.  
“Someday,” he said, “things will better. We’ll be able to rest.”  
“Yeah?” the corner of Dean’s mouth quirked. “How d’you figure?”  
“I just know,” Sam said. Dean gave him an odd look. “Not like that,” Sam said quickly. “I just believe it.”  
“Well – good,” Dean lay down and pressed his face to the juncture of Sam’s neck and shoulder. “You keep believing that.”  
Dean fell asleep before Sam.  
* * *_ _ _ _ _

_____“Murdering scum.”  
Shani was standing over the shackled prisoner, dark eyes alight with rage, knuckles white where she gripped her rifle. The prisoner had a red welt on the side of his face where Shani had evidently struck him.  
“Shani, let us interrogate him first,” said Greg quietly, putting a hand on the young woman’s upper arm.  
“I’ll _interrogate_ him,” Shani snarled.  
“I know how you feel,” Greg said.  
“No you _don’t!_ Don’t say you do because you don’t!” Shani shook his arm off with an abrupt jerk.  
“Give him to me,” Ruby said, entering the chamber.  
Greg and Shani both looked at her. From where he was sitting at the table cleaning guns, Sam looked too. Ruby met his eyes and raised her eyebrows slightly. For a second no-one moved.  
“Shani did bring him in,” said Greg cautiously, “They shot the other two outside.” Shani and Marquez had been on guard duty outside the chamber, and Greg had been cleaning weapons with Sam.  
“I know, Shani,” Ruby said. “But you’re too close to this. You know you are. Let me and Sam handle it.”  
Greg raised his own eyebrows at Ruby’s abrupt inclusion of Sam in her plans, but he didn’t say anything. Shani bit her lip, eyes narrowed, visibly struggling with herself. “Fine,” she said suddenly and lowered her weapon. On her way back outside to return to her post, she spat at the prisoner’s feet. Ruby picked up a handgun from the table and replaced the aim Shani had held on the prisoner.  
“Shani’s family were killed by State troops,” Greg explained softly to Sam. “She was just a child.”  
“Oh,” Sam said.  
“Let’s go, hero,” Ruby nudged the kneeling prisoner roughly with her foot. The man got to his feet awkwardly, hands cuffed in front of him. His bland face was expressionless, the perfect cardboard cutout of a State soldier. Ruby ordered him to strip and disposed of the small weapons he had hidden under his clothing, as well as a communicator of some sort Sam had never seen before. The device appeared to be non-functioning, the power light dead, but Ruby crushed it under her boot heel to be sure.  
“Remove your chip.” She handed the soldier his own penknife by the handle.  
“What chip?” said the soldier.  
“Greg, would you do the honours?” Whilst Ruby kept a gun trained on the soldier, Greg gripped the man’s forearm and neatly removed the identichip. He crushed that too on the ground.  
“Sam,” Ruby gestured with her head for Sam to follow her. The soldier was silent as they escorted him to a locked room in a quiet corridor that Sam had never been to before. When he saw the single chair set in the middle of the stone floor, the parallel between this interrogation room and his own was not lost on him. He reminded himself this was different – the State was the aggressor, and this drone had come armed and infiltrated their sanctuary on purpose.  
“Name and rank?” Ruby asked once the prisoner was seated.  
“Chris P. Bacon,” said the soldier evenly.  
“Oh, a funny guy, huh? What are you doing here, Chris P. Bacon?”  
“Got lost.”  
Ruby smacked him across the face with the butt of her gun. Sam didn’t wince at the crack.  
“Tell the truth,” she scolded. “Who sent you? What do they want with us?”  
“I got. Lost,” said the soldier through gritted teeth, “on a reconnaissance mission.”  
“Well Sam,” Ruby said, her eyes never leaving the naked prisoner. “Looks like you got your first chance to practice your skills on a human.”  
By now he had learned how far to push to cause pain without damage, or damage without fatality. He envisaged the man’s heart and circulatory system, caused his pulse to accelerate, heart beat harder, lungs to contract, blood vessels to constrict around his brain until the man was begging for mercy, until blood streamed bright red from his nose and veins bulged in his forehead. The whites of his eyes were shot red with straining capillaries. Ruby watched with professionalism, letting Sam judge the beats at which to start and stop, and Sam didn’t let himself feel anything.  
“What the fuck are you?” gasped the soldier, sagging forwards in the chair but restrained by the cuffs around his wrists and ankles. Sam didn’t answer, too caught up in controlling his powers to spare the attention.  
“He’s a soldier like you are,” said Ruby finally. “Now I’ll ask you one more time: what are you doing here?”  
As best as they could gather, the man was part of a scouting contingent whose communications had failed.  
“We must have gotten too far from the Base.”  
“So you were scouting for us?” Ruby asked pleasantly.  
“For your rebel base, yes. But they don’t know,” he said quickly, with a glance at Sam. “They don’t know your co-ordinates, we had a wide area to cover, and by the time I found this place my communicator was out of range. I came here by accident, I swear.”  
“I think he’s telling the truth,” said Sam.  
“Me too,” Ruby frowned, “But we’ve still got trouble. His base could’ve got a fix on his ID chip after he went missing.”  
They extracted the location of the State base where the soldier was stationed, the number of personnel, the equipment, and Ruby quickly radioed Greg with directions.  
“We don’t have the numbers to take them out, but get Jake to disable their communications, if he can,” she ordered. “Priority One.” Then, “Fuck,” she swore when she clicked off, “fuck,” and ran a hand through her hair. “Why couldn’t you just leave us alone?” she snarled.  
The man actually laughed. “Leave you _alone_? You’re terrorists. You should all die.”  
Ruby closed her eyes briefly, glanced at Sam, and said,  
“That’s all we’ll get out of this one. Kill him.”  
And the soldier looked up with equanimity, so Sam burst his heart._ _ _ _ _

_____* * *_ _ _ _ _

_____SECURITY TO CENTRAL OFFICE OF THE HIEROPHANT.  
RE:CODENAME ‘SLEEPER’.  
HIGH PRIORITY 18/03/2012.  
TEST SUCCESSFUL: THE WEAPON IS PRIMED.  
END REPORT.  
AUTHORISED AS OF THIS DATE  
GENERAL R Q ZACHARIAH  
CHIEF OF STATE SECURITY  
IN THE GLORY OF GOD AND THE STATE._ _ _ _ _

_____ _ _ _

_____* * *_ _ _ _ _

_____“What’s wrong?” asked Dean immediately when Sam stumbled into their sleeping quarters. He caught Sam by the upper arm: “You look like hell.”  
“I’m fine.”  
“The hell you are. Sit down,” Dean pushed Sam to sit on the bedroll: “Are you sick? Should I get the doc?”  
“No!” Sam snapped. “Leave it.”  
“Alright, Jesus,” Dean blew out his breath and sat down himself. “Sorry I asked.”  
“No, I’m sorry,” Sam said. “I just…”  
“Vision?” Dean lowered his voice, leaned in closer.  
“…yeah.” It seemed as good an excuse as any. Sam ran his hands over his face, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he looked up Dean was regarding him carefully.  
“What’s going on, Sam?” he asked.  
“What do you mean?”  
“Don’t give me that. I may not be some freaking child prodigy, but I ain’t stupid. You’ve been acting weird for weeks. Ever since you started hanging out with-”  
“I thought you weren’t jealous.”  
“I’m not! I’m worried about you, okay?”  
“There’s no need to be,” Sam said. He wanted to add, ‘everything will be fine’, but he couldn’t. Dean stared at him for a minute.  
“Whatever,” he said.  
“What’s that supposed to me?”  
“Nothing,” Dean said extra-lightly, “Only I thought we were partners, Sammy. A team. But hey. You want to keep secrets that’s your prerogative. You’re an adult.” Sam felt a brief flash of irritation. Why did Dean have to make this harder?  
“We are partners,” he said tiredly.  
“Sure doesn’t seem like it,” Dean said quickly.  
“Well we are,” Sam asserted. “It’s just…there are some things I have to do without you, okay? You saved me, and I’ll never not be grateful. But there’s some stuff you can’t help with.”  
“You’re using it.”  
“What?”  
“You’re using your…” Dean gestured, lowered his voice even further. “Powers. Whatever. Don’t lie. I’ve seen it enough times that I know the look on your face.”  
“I-”  
“I understand. I don’t like it and I wish to hell you would stop, but I understand. You always been the type that needs to believe in something,” Dean shrugged, and when Sam remained silent, disappointment settled on him like a visible weight. “It’s dangerous,” he said.  
Sam laughed humorlessly.  
“Yeah alright I get it,” Dean scowled. “Every fuckin’ thing is dangerous. I’m just scared that you’re…”  
“I’m what?”  
“Playing into their hands. The Resistance _wants_ you to use it, to like it.”  
“How would they even know?”  
Dean gave him a dry look.  
“You really don’t trust anyone.”  
“Well you know what they say, Sammy, you live what you learn.”  
Sam winced, but supposed he more than deserved that.  
“I’m really not...” he trailed off. “All that’s between me and Ruby is shared interest. We’re comrades.”  
Dean said nothing.  
“You remember what it was like,” Sam said bitterly. “To have a purpose.”  
“Not really,” Dean said, “It always seemed to me that purpose was a fast way to get yourself killed in the service of your superiors.”  
Pause.  
“Go to sleep,” Dean said roughly. “You really do look like shit. I got duty.”  
He didn’t look behind him as he left._ _ _ _ _

_____12._ _ _ _ _

_____ _ _ _

_____The end began quietly but absolutely: Sam and Dean entered the communal hall, and the quiet was the dense, startling sort that felt like walking into an obstruction. Five men and three women dressed in sleek black body armor stood at tactical positions near the walls, each with an automatic machine gun aimed expertly at the cluster of communists in the center. A tall man stood near the serving counter, surveying the scene, and talking calmly with Ruby. He was fortyish, blond, moderately handsome with a slightly fox-like face. He was muscularly built, with mild blue eyes and a short beard. When Sam and Dean entered, Ruby’s eyes went directly to Sam, and something like guilt flashed across her expression, brief and deep.  
“Sam Winchester,” said the man pleasantly. His voice was higher than his stature would suggest: “Welcome.”  
“Who are you?” Sam choked.  
“My name is Nicholas,” said the man still in that mild tone, walking slowly towards Sam and Dean with the controlled grace of a predator. “I wouldn’t bother,” he said to Dean who was reaching for his communicator, “Your guards are dead, and your friends in the front office have guns on them.”  
Dean tried anyway. No answer. Nicholas shrugged as to say, ‘I did tell you’, and went on, “They call me Prometheus.”  
“ _Prometheus?”_ Dean said scathingly.  
“Kind of… glorifying, I know,” he replied. “I didn’t ask for it. But, people do like symbolic value, and the Church has ruined Satan so thoroughly that even the Resistance hesitate to use it. Still. Same figure.”  
“The Church didn’t _ruin_ Satan,” Sam said. “Satan is the embodiment of spiritual evil. You’d know all about that, I guess.”  
“Hardly,” The man raised his eyebrows. “Satan is a great deal older than the Church, or indeed Christianity. It has many names. Satan is the figure of resistance to an evil, oppressive regime that seeks to justify suffering and inequality through reference to some kind of mystical reward after death. Look it up.”  
Sam said nothing.  
“I know the Church controls everything you read, but when you come home you’ll have access to materials that will explain it all. You already know they’re liars.”  
“And you’re murderers,” said Dean.  
“Only when we have to be. Same as you.”  
“You killed my parents,” Sam accused. “You had them hunted down because they betrayed you.”  
“The State killed your parents,” said the man, “and several of our troops at the same time. We would have been perfectly content to take you and bring you home. You too, Dean, and you, Ocean. You know we need the baby.”  
“No,” Ocean said calmly, from where she sat with the baby against her shoulder: “I told you before Nick. The answer is no.”  
“Excuse me?” Dean said.  
“You wouldn’t have gotten much out of him.”  
The new voice from the far doorway brought everyone’s eyes to the speaker. Memory rushed back to Sam like a flood of freezing water. He felt his mouth open involuntarily and the world titled: the uniform was the same, the bland, smiling expression, the light of fanaticism in the round pale eyes.  
“Zachariah,” he said.  
At the instant he spoke, the two nearest Resistance fighters drew their weapons on Zachariah, but his henchmen had aimed theirs on Nick at the same instant. Stalemate.  
“Samuel,” said the General, “Time to come home. And you Dean, really,” he tutted. “We just keep giving you chances. I suspect that your luck might be out this time.” Then he addressed Nick: “He’s a dud. The mother wasn’t enough. The father was inappropriate – we’d wondered if prolonged exposure to Sam’s powers would trigger anything – it’s happened before, but they died – but he really seems to be just a regular, despite his illustrious mother.”  
“What are you talking about?” said Dean carefully.  
“Oh, please,” Zachariah said. “Dean, Dean…did you honestly think we assigned you to Sam because you were _good at your job_?” He laughed, short and merry. “Sometimes proximity between engineered siblings causes powers to manifest. Not in your case. You might think of yourself as beta testing. By the time your little brother here came along-” He nodded to Sam, “They’d refined the formula.” His eyes went to Ocean and the baby, and gleamed with interest. “It remains to be seen what exactly they’re doing with it nowadays.”  
“Go to hell,” Ocean snapped, and at the same time,  
“My brother is dead!” Dean shouted.  
“Oh really? Did you see him die?” said Zachariah.  
Slowly, visibly, all the color drained from Dean’s face, leaving his freckles stark against pale skin.  
“You’re lying,” he asserted.  
“He’s not,” said Nick. “Dean, you are one of us. The best thing you can do is come-” He never finished the sentence. A look of profound surprise came over his handsome features, his mouth opened wide, and a globule of dark blood dropped out of his mouth to stain the front of his shirt. Several more followed, a short shower of thick red-black rain. Sam registered that a gun had been fired, the sound seeming to lag behind the effect, and Nick collapsed, to reveal Ruby with her gun still raised and the barrel smoking. A wry smile came over her face, and she met Sam’s eyes with an expression of resignation, split seconds before she was flung backwards by a spate of Resistance bullets. Her body jerked under the force of them, limbs striking the serving counter, then she crumpled, hole-ridden, shirt soaked with blood and the glaze of death already covering her eyes.  
Pandemonium.  
As the Resistance troops turned their attention to Ruby, the State soldiers had picked off two of them, who immediately returned fire. In that instant, Zachariah was unguarded, and Ocean snatched the gun from a Resistance soldier who had slumped dead across that table and shot him. One bullet straight to the skull, and his head exploded like a melon: a State soldier immediately fired at her but a bullet from Dean’s gun ruined his shot and his bullet skittered harmlessly into the floor tiles, cracking and singing. Now the communists drew their own weapons, and in the chaos, the State and Resistance troops died faster under the combined assault of each other and of the communists. Dean pushed Sam to the floor and under a table, and Sam regretted bitterly that he had no gun on him. Dean glanced back to him, exhilarated, and grinned,  
“What do you say we get out of here?”  
“Ruby’s dead,” said Sam.  
Dean nodded at their clear path to the door, and Sam closed his eyes briefly, then he steeled himself.  
“Run again?” he said.  
“Seems our best option.”  
Bullets zinged around them as they dashed for the door – Sam cried out as one grazed Dean’s upper arm with a brief spray of blood.  
“It’s fine!” Dean shouted. They left the back way – the guards outside were indeed, dead, but a State Guard lay dead, too, blood seeping from his stomach into the vegetable patch. They commandeered one of the 4x4s which Dean hotwired swiftly, Sam glancing back at the low brick building in horror as the gunfire continued.  
“Come on, come on,” said Dean, and the engine squeaked, fizzed, then roared to life, and they tore from the compound directly into the desert.  
“Ruby’s dead,” said Sam again: “She killed their leader.”  
“Double agent,” said Dean grimly. “She used you as bait.”  
“Zachariah’s dead,” Sam said, and laughed.  
“Yeah,” Dean smiled. “Zachariah’s dead. I knew I liked that Ocean chick for some reason.”  
They fell silent as the old engine growled in the still day._ _ _ _ _

_____* * *_ _ _ _ _

_____“I love you,” Sam said. It was nightfall. They had taken shelter in an open cave, started a fire, and neither had yet mentioned finding something to eat.  
“I love you too,” said Dean absently. Sam reached up as though to turn his face for a kiss. Dean moved away. Sam frowned.  
“Sammy…” Dean said.  
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, “That I went behind your back. Using the powers, I mean.”  
Dean stared at him. “You did what you thought was right,” he said at last.  
“So…?  
 _“So…” Dean widened his eyes a little.  
“Oh,” Sam said, remembering. “Dean, we don’t know if that’s even true.”  
“Why would they lie about it?” Dean said bitterly. “I mean – I – God. I’m a pervert. We can’t-” he looked up at Sam, looked away, and moved infinitesimally further to increase the distance between them. “You’re my _little brother._. Now that _is_ unnatural, Sam. That’s sick.”  
“That’s what I used to think about myself too. But if there’s no God, why’s it wrong?”  
“It’s against nature.”  
“So? It’s not like we’re going to reproduce.” Sam smiled a little. “Ruby’s dead,” Sam counted off on his fingers. “Nick. Zachariah. Jack. Probably Ocean and a whole bunch of other people. For all we know the whole colony. One day we’ll be dead, and everyone who remembers us. Then we’ll be nothing. And we’re not hurting anyone by being together, and we already break all the laws of the Church, State and Resistance. Just by existing, we break all the laws, and we can’t help that. That means the laws are wrong. Why should this one be any different?”  
Dean stared at him. “You’re just...okay with it?”  
“Maybe if we’d grown up together I’d feel different,” Sam shrugged. “Or…maybe not. I don’t care, really.”  
“I should never have taken the assignment,” Dean said.  
“They gave you a choice?”  
“No.”  
“Do you regret it?”  
“No. I don’t…whatever else, Sam, I don’t regret meeting you.” It was the sort of confession that ought to demand eye contact, but Dean stared at the ground. “It’s like…I had this fucked up life…knew how bad things were…and you were just this innocent kid who didn’t deserve what was happening. I thought you’d be a dick. Like, up yourself. And you kind of were,” he smiled. “But you were _good_ too, and smart as hell, and like, nice to people when you didn’t have to be. You believed in things. I wanted to keep you safe,” he shrugged. “Look how that turned out.”  
“You gave me something more important than safety,” Sam said.  
“What’s that?”  
“Freedom.”  
Dean looked up.  
“I’m free,” Sam said, “and, weird as it sounds, I’m not scared anymore. Before, in that world, I was scared all the time, even though I knew what I was doing and what was supposed to happen and where I was supposed to go every day. I just buried that fear deep down and covered it up in rituals and obedience. Now I’m not afraid.”  
Dean was silent for a long minute.  
“You killed that prisoner, didn’t you?” he said at last. “Using your powers?”  
“Yes.”  
“I wish you never killed anyone. I’ve ruined you.”  
“I’m not proud of it,” Sam said. “But he was a State soldier. He would have killed me if the places were reversed.”  
Pause.  
“Let’s not stay anywhere again,” Dean said at last. “Whenever we stop, things get fucked up.”  
“What just – wander forever?”  
“There is no forever.”  
“Until we die?”  
Dean shrugged. “Got a better plan?”  
“I think I’m tired of plans,” Sam said. “Can’t we just live?”  
“We’ll talk about it in the morning,” Dean said after a moment, and the sun dipped behind the hills.__ _ _ _ _

______THE END._ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
